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2?  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WESSTER.N.Y.  14580 

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CIHM/ICMH 
Microfiche 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


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The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
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which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
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the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


n 


n 


n 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagie 


□    Cov 
Cou 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
verture  restaurie  et/ou  peiliculAe 


I      I    Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  gdographiques  on  couleur 


□    Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

I      I    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


D 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 


Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

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distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intdrieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
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have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajout^es 
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mais,  lorsque  cela  dtait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  fiimdes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppldmentaires; 


L'lnstitut  a  microfilm*  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  «t«  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  Image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mAthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquAs  ci-dessous. 


I      I    Coloured  pages/ 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagAes 

Pages  restored  and/oi 

Pages  restauries  et/ou  pellicul^es 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxei 
Pages  d^colories,  tachet^es  ou  piqu^es 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d6tach6es 

Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quality  in^gale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  materit 
Comprend  du  matdriel  suppl^mentaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 


I  I  Pages  damaged/ 

I  I  Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

r^  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

I  I  Pages  detached/ 

I  I  Showthrough/ 

I  I  Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I  I  Includes  supplementary  material/ 

I  I  Only  edition  available/ 


B    Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t6  filmdes  d  nouveau  de  fapon  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  iossible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film*  au  taux  de  reduction  indlqu6  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


26X 


30X 


y 

12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  hat  been  reproduced  thank* 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Moriuat  Library 
Univartity  c1  Ottawa 


L'exemplaire  fllmA  fut  reprodult  grAce  6  la 
ginArosIti  de: 

BibliotMqua  Moriiiat 
UnivariiU  d'Ottawa 


The  Images  appearing  here  are  the  boat  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  In  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  Illustrated  Impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  Impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  Illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shiil  contain  the  symbol  — ^-  (meaning  "CON- 
TFAIUED"),  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Les  Images  suivantes  ont  AtA  reproduites  avec  ie 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettetA  de  l'exemplaire  film*,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  do 
fllmage. 

Les  exemplalres  origlnaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  ImprimAe  sont  fllmAs  en  commenpant 
par  Ie  premier  plat  et  en  termlnant  solt  par  la 
derni^re  page  qui  comporte  une  emprelnte 
d'Impression  ou  d'lllustratlon,  soit  par  Ie  second 
piat,  salon  Ie  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exempiaiies 
origlnaux  sont  filmAs  en  commenfant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinta 
d'Impression  on  d'lllustratlon  et  en  term!nant  par 
la  dernlAre  page  qui  comporta  une  telle 
emprelnte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernlAre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  Ie 
cas:  Ie  symbole  — ►  signifle  "A  SUIVRE  ",  Ie 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN  ". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  ThOHO  too  large  to  be 
entirely  Included  In  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  Illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  6tre 
fiimis  A  des  taux  de  reduction  dlff6rents. 
Lorsque  Ie  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reoroduit  en  un  seul  clichd,  11  est  i\\m6  A  partir 
de  Tangle  sup6rleur  gauche,  de  gauche  a  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  Ie  nombre 
d'images  nicessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
lliustrent  la  mdthode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

■V 


By  GRANT  ALLEN. 


Miss  Cay  ley's  Adventures. 

Illustrated,  8'\  cloth    .         .         .     $1.50 

Rosalba  ;  The  Story  of   Her  Develop- 
ment. 

12",  paper,  50  cts.  ;  cloth         .     $1.00 
Hilda  Wade. 

Illustrated,  8^  cloth        .         .     <| 


C;.  p.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

37   AND   2()   WksT   23U   SlREET,    NeW    YoRK 


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HILDA    WADE 


A  WOMAN  WITH  TENACITY  OF  PURPOSE 


BY 


GRANT  ALLFN 

Author  ..f  "Miss  Cayley's  Advci.turfs/'  "  Rusalb.,/'  etc. 


u 


WITH  NINKTV  EIGHT  ILLUSTRATIONS 
Bv  GORDON  HROWNH 


3C 
f, 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW   YORK   AND  LONDON 
Cbe  Itntcherbo^^hcr   press 

BIBLIOTHECA 


4./ 


nv 
n   P.  PUTNANFS  SONS 


U5/ 
)900 


Ube  ftnlcfterbochec  prcB«,  view  JCorft 


PUIUJSIII'RS'    NOTK 

IX  piittinp  l)efore  tlic  public  the  last  work  by  Mr.  Ciraiit 
Ailin,  the  publishers  clcsirc*  to  express  their  deep  rej;ret 
at  the  author's  luiexpected  aud  laineuted  death  a  regret  in 
which  they  are  sure  to  l)e  joined  by  the  many  thousand 
readers  whojn  he  did  so  much  to  entertain.  A  man  of  curi- 
ously varied  and  comprehensive  knowled^;e,  ami  with  the 
most  charming  personality  ;  a  writer  who,  treating?  of  a  wide 
variety  of  subjects,  touched  nothing  which  he  did  not  make 
distinctive,  he  filled  a  place  which  no  man  livinj;  can  exactly 
occupy.  The  last  chapter  of  this  volume  had  been  roughly 
sketched  by  Mr.  Allen  before  his  final  illness,  and  his 
anxiety,  when  debarred  from  work,  to  see  it  finished,  was 
relieved  by  the  considerate  kindness  of  his  friend  and  neigh- 
bour, Dr.  Conan  Doyle,  who,  hearinjjf  of  his  trouble,  talked 
it  over  with  him,  gathered  his  ideas,  and  finally  wrote  it 
out  for  him  in  the  form  in  which  it  now  appears  —  a  beau- 
tiful and  pathetic  act  of  friendship  which  it  is  a  pleasure 
to  record. 


Hi 


CONTICNTS 


I  HAITI  H  HAOIC 

I.    Till';   I\i'is<n>K   CM    Tin;   I'atiknt  who   DiSAi'itiiNTiai 

IIKR    DofToK  ....  .1 

II.- Till';  I'li'i.soni-:  oi*  Tin;  ('.i;nti,i;man  who  iivd  I\ii,i'.i> 

I'OK    I'iVliKVTiMNC.          ...                                             .  .^1 

in.     Tm;  I'li'isoni;  of  tim;  Wiik  wiiu  Dm  in;K  Ditv       .  (k) 

l\'.    Till';  I')iM.soi)i:  oi"  Tin;  Man  who  woti.D  not  Cum.mit 

SuiciDK 103 

V.    Tin;  MiMSODK  oi*  Tin;  Nkkdm;  that  did  not  Match.  i.vS 

VI.— Thic    I'^I'ISodi;   oi-    tiii;    I.kttkk   with    tmic    Hasino- 

sToKi;  Postmark 170 

VII.— Thk  I*;i'i,S()i)K  ()!•  Tin;  Stonk  that  I.ookkd  about  it.  203 

VIII.— Thk  Hi'ISodk  if  thk  I'Uikopkan  with  thk  Kaffik 

Hkakt 235 

IX.— Thk  Ki'isodk  ok  thk  I^adv  who  was  vkry  Kxci,usivk.  264 

X.— Thk  Hpisodk  of  thk  Guidk  who  Knkw  thk  Countrv.  297 

XI.— Thk   Hi'isodk  ok   thk    Okkickr    who    Undkrstooh 

PKRKr,CTl,Y 330 

XII.— The  Episodk  of  the  Dead  Man  who  Spokk    .        .  363 


^^ra 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


I- AC.  I 


"  Passknorrs  RiTSHKD  ON   Dkck   a:-.d  Waitko   for  thkir 


Fronti, 


'pica 


Turn  to  Takk  Pi.acks  in  thi-,  Roats" 

PUOFP^SSOR  vSKHASTIAN 

Hiij)A  Wadk 

"IT  Was  no  Goon;  thk  Rahhits  ai,l  I)iki> 

"Hk  Lay  i.ong  AsijvKP  "    .... 

"She  Showed  no  Sign  of  Rkcovekv  "  . 

"Thkir  Glances  Met"      .... 

"She  Ought  to  have  Died"    . 

"She  and  my  Cousin  had  »Struck  vv  a  Cuxsi-;  Acquaint 

ance" 

"Is  he  well  off?" 

"Why  don't  you  Ask  him  his  Intentions?" 

"He  Sat  down  opposite  mi:"  .... 

"She  Broke  down  and  Began  to  Cry" 

"'To  MY  Two  Mashes,'  she  Explained" 

"  Most  CHI1.DISH  and  Charming"   . 

"I  Used  to  Stand  about  at  the  Door" 

"One  can't  heIvP  Admiring  her" 

"I  DON'T  Mind  Letting  you    Have  a  Squint  at   One  of 

HER  BlLLY-DOOS" 

"Oh,  then,  of  Course,  you  're  Half  Welsh,  as  I  Am." 

vii 


3 
5 
9 

'7 

23 

25 
29 

33 
37 
41 
43 
49 
53 
55 
57 
6i 

65 
71 


vni 


Illustrations 


"AOR 

"I  Am  a  Nurse  ai^kkady" /7 

'•SlIl!;   DrKW  THU  ^UICK  OUTMNIC   of   a    I'ACIC   IN    HIM  NoTK- 

BOOK  " 83 

"Shb  did  Givh  it  to  'im" 85 

•*Thk  Norwkoian  Daggkr" 91 

"Doubts  Are  not  in  hhk  Line" 95 

"  That  Sktti.es  It  !    The  End  Is  v  :ky  Near  '     ...  99 
"The  Unhappy  Lady  Diicd  Instantaneoisia' "    .                .101 

*'  KlI«UvD,    BRAVELY   FIGHTING  " I05 

'•  Fl,ung  H1MSE1.E  Over" 107 

"He  woui^d  cerTaini,y  Get  Rid  oe  that"    ....  115 

"He  coui^d  (.'hange  in  some  Corsi;" 118 

"  The  Doi,GEi.i.Y  Man  " 123 

"I  Consulted  my  Ordnance  Map" 125 

"He  Flung  Out  his  Arms" 127 

"The  Man  Rose  with  a  IvITTle  Cry  and  Advance;d  "      .  129 

"The  Lord  had  Decided" 135 

"An  Unpractical  Person" 140 

"The  Door  Opened,  and  Sebastian  F^ntered"  .        .        .  143 

"  With  a  Little  Scream  she  Let  the  Hasin  Fall  "         .  147 

"  But  Dangerous— Dangerous  !  " 151 

"I  Had  my  Suspicions" 159 

"I  Know  Them  as  well  as  I  Know  me  own  Mother"    .  163 

"' Don't  Press  ME,'  SHE  Said  " 165 

"  This  Hospital  Is  not    Big   Enough   for  you    and  me 

abreast" «  .        .168 

"Over  a  Reflective  Pipe" 172 

"The  Admiral  WAS  Taken  III  " 178 

"I  Thought  his  Smile  would  Swallow  him"     .        .        .181 

"The    lAsiNGSTOKE  Postmark" 185 

"She  AST  ME  where  I  was  Going" 187 


Illustration: 


IX 


"I  COtTT,n   HARPLV    HKMKVK   MY   ICyHS"     .... 

"Then  you  Knew  I  would  Comic?"       .... 

"My  Hubert!" 

"I  Asked  you  not  to  Come— and  you  Camk   in    simti-;  of 


MK 


"He  Gave  me  his  Views  on  thi-:  Cultivation  ok  oats" 

"I  Gazed  about  me  at  the  Raw  New  Land"     . 

"OoM  Jan  Wiij.em  I/AY  vStretched  at  Fuij.  Lenoth" 

"IT  Was  Hilda,  with  Tant  Mettie's  Hahy" 

"  They  Passed  JUST  Bi'i.ow  " 

"Hilda  Pedalled  bravivly  hy  my  sii):;" 

"With  a  ringing  vShriek,  the  IMatahicmc   I'ell  in  the 
Road" 

"I  vSaw  the  Face  " 

"Could  I,  Baby?" 

"I  Tried  to  Draw  him  Out" 

"Wi;  Watched  BY  Turns" 

"Colebrook  Held  up  one  Warning  Hand" 

"  He  's  There,  right  enough  " 

"  A  Wild  Moment  Tollowed  " 

"It  Was  a  Mad  Chase  across  the  Dark  Veldt" 

"The  Fugitive  was  Riding  Away"        .... 

"I  Havs  a  Presentiment  that  you  will  be  Surprised 
TO  Find  me  there" 

"'She  does  n't  Look  Profound,'  I  Admitted"  . 

"The   Daughters   of    the    Commander-in-Chief    Drew 

THEIR  Skirts  away  as  she  Passed  .... 

"I  Won't  be  Lady  Gubbins  " 

"Miss  Wade  Is  your  Cousin,  I  Suppose?"  . 

"I  Foresee  she  will  Ask  us" 

"My  Wife  has  Delivered  her  Ultimatum" 


PACK 

•93 
197 
201 

205 
20.S 
21 1 

215 
217 
219 
222 

227 

233 
237 
243 
245 
249 
250 

253 
257 
261 

266 
271 

273 
277 
283 

286 
293 


Illustrations 


I' 


"Lady  Mhadowcroft  Ri'shi:d  on  Dkck" 

"Voir  Akk  so  Funny!" 

"TnK  (UiiDK" 

"  IIlS  vSkrVIUTY   HAD  VANISHKD"       . 

"  Wic  WiCKK  I'AiRi.v  Trapped  "... 

"  Ahsorbkd  in  his  Dhvotions" 

•'»Shk  Took  tiik  vString  in  hkr  Hands" 

"TiiK  vSacrkd  Drink  Was  vkry  Much  To  his  Tastk 

"Sahib  and  Mi^m-Sahihs  must  Go  Away"    . 

"CUMBKUI.iaJf.Ii  !      COMK   HACK   TO  LiKK,  THKN  !  " 

**  Wk  must  Manage  to  (Urr  Rid  of  hkk  "    . 

"Let  us  Understand  One  Another"    . 

"•You  Sneak!'  he  Cried,  passionatei^y "   . 

"His  Mood  Was  Unsociable" 

"Flirting  with  her  desperately" 

"Passengers   Rushed  on  Deck  and  Waited  f 
Turn  to  Take  Places  in  the  Boats"     . 

"Do  you  Think  he  Is  Alive?" 

"Hilda  Watched  her  Life-j.ong  Enemy"  . 

"I  Stood  up  and  Waved  Hilda's  White  Sha.vl" 

"I  Almost  Believe  he  Is  at  last  Remorseful" 

"'He  Was  an  Innocent  Man,'  Said  she,  angrily" 

"'A  Remarkable  Woman,  Gentlemen,'  Said  he" 

"'No  Impediment,'  she  Answered" 


OR  THEIR 


PAOB 

295 
398 

30a 
305 
309 
313 
317 
321 

327 
336 
339 
347 
350 

353 
355 

359 
361 
364 
367 
371 
375 
377 
382 


fl 


w 


u 


••fcSi 


PAOR 

295 
298 

302 

305 

309 

313 

321 

327 

336 

339 

347 

350 

353 
355 


HILDA  WADE 


i 


i 


HILDA  WADE 


CHAPTER   I 

THR    EPISODE    OF   THE    PATIENT   WHO    DLSAPPOINTED    HER 

D(3CTOR 


HILDA  WADE'S  gift  was  so  unique,  so  extraordinary, 
that  I  must  illustrate  it,  I  think,  before  I  attempt  to 
describe  it.     But  first  let  me  say  a  word  of  explanation 
about  the  Master. 

I  have  never  met  anyone  who  impressed  me  so  much  with 
a  sense  o^  ^reci/?ifss  as  Professor  Sebastian.  And  this  was 
not  due  to  his  scientific  eminence  alone  :  the  man's  strength 
and  keenness  struck  me  quite  as  forcibly  as  his  vast  attain- 
ments. When  he  first  came  to  St.  Nathaniel's  Hospital,  an 
eager,  fiery-eyed  physiologist,  well  past  the  prime  of  life,  and 
began  to  preach  with  all  the  electric  force  of  his  vivid  per- 
sonality that  the  one  thing  on  earth  worth  a  young  man's 
doing  was  to  work  in  his  laboratory,  attend  his  lectures, 
study  disease,  and  be  a  scientific  doctor,  dozens  of  us  were 
infected  by  his  contagious  enthusiasm.  He  proclaimed  the 
gospel  of  germs  ;  and  the  germ  of  his  own  zeal  flew  abroad 


Hilda  Waclc 


I       I 


l 

t? 


ii 


» 


ill  tlic  hospital:  it  ran  lliroiiKli  llit'  wards  as  if  it  vveru  typliDid 
fever.  W'ilhiii  a  Lw  moiiilis,  half  llic  hiiulciils  were  con- 
verted from  liikewatin  observers  of  medical  rouline  into  Uum- 
\\\^  apostles  of  the  new  inelhods. 

The  greatest  authority  in  ICiirope  oti  comparative  anatomy, 
now  that  Ilnxley  was  taken  from  us,  he  had  devoted  his  later 
days  to  the  pursuit  of  medicine  [)ropcr,  to  which  he  hrou^hl  a 
mind  stored  with  luminous  analogies  from  the  lower  animals. 
His  very  appearance  held  one.  Tall,  thin,  elect,  with  an 
ascetic  profile  not  unlike  Car  liiial  Manning's,  he  represented 
that  abstract  form  of  asceticism  which  consists  in  absolute 
self-sacrifice  to  a  mental  ideal,  not  that  which  consists  in  re- 
ligious abnegation.  Three  years  of  travel  in  Africa  had 
tanned  his  skin  for  life.  His  long  white  hair,  straight  and 
silvery  as  it  fell,  just  curled  in  one  wave-like  inward  sweep 
where  it  turned  and  rested  on  the  stooping  shoulder:-..  His 
pale  face  was  clean-shaven,  .save  for  a  thin  and  wiry  griz/led 
moustache,  which  cast  into  stronger  relief  the  deep-.set,  hawk- 
like eyes  and  the  acute,  intense,  intellectual  features.  In 
some  respects,  his  countenance  reminded  me  often  of  Dr. 
Martineau's  :  in  others  it  recalled  the  knife-like  edge,  un- 
turnable,  of  his  great  predecessor,  Professor  Owen.  Wher- 
ever he  went,  men  turned  to  stare  at  him.  In  Paris,  they 
took  him  for  the  head  of  the  Ivnglish  vSocialists  ;  in  Russia, 
they  declared  he  was  a  Nihilist  emissary.  And  they  were 
not  fiir  wrong  —  in  essence  ;  for  Sebastian's  .stern,  .sharp  face 
wasa1)ove  all  things  the  face  of  a  man  absorbed  and  engrossed 
by  one  overpowering  pursuit  in  life  —  the  sacred  thirst  of 
knowledge,  which  had  swallowed  up  his  entire  nature. 

He  7i'as  what  he  looked — the  most  singje-minded  person  I 
have  ever  come  across.     And  when  I  say  single-minded,  I 


# 


The  l\itlint  \\\u)  r)isa|)|)()intr(I 


mean  just  th.it,  and  no  more.  lie  had  an  V.iu\  to  attain  — 
tlic  advanccMucut  ol  science,  and  lie  went  straight  tow  aids  tlie 
I'jid,  looking  neither  to  llie 
ri^lit  nor  to  the  lelt  lor 
anyone.  An  Anierican 
niillionairc  once  remarked 
to  hitn  ol"  some  in^enions 
aj>|)liance  lie  was  describ- 
ing: "  Why,  if  yw  were  to 
perfect  that  apparatus.  Pro- 
fi'.ssor,  and  take  out  n  ])nt- 
enl  for  it,  I  reckon  you  'd 
nuke  as  nnich  money  :is  I 
have  made."  vSihaslian 
withered  him  with  a  j^lance. 
"  I  liave  no  time  to  waste," 
he  replied,  "  on  makijig 
money  !  " 

vSo,  when  Hilda  Wade  told 
me,  on  the  first  day  I  met 
her,  that  she  wished  to  become  a  nurse  at  Nathaniel's,  "  to 
be  nearvSebastian,"  I  was  not  at  all  astonished.  I  took  her  at 
her  word.  ICverybody  who  meant  business  in  any  l)ranch 
of  the  medical  art,  however  humljle,  desired  to  be  close  to 
our  rare  teacher — to  drink  in  his  large  thought,  to  profit  by 
his  clear  insight,  his  wide  experience.  The  man  of  Na- 
thaniel's was  revolutionising  practice;  and  tho.se  who  wished 
to  feel  themselves  abreast  of  the  modern  movement  were 
naturally  anxious  to  cast  in  their  lot  with  him.  I  did  not 
wonder,  therefore,  that  Hilda  Wade,  who  her.self  possessed 
in  so  large  a  measure  the  deepest  feminine  gift — intuition — 


I'KOKKSSdk    SMiASI  IAN. 


Hilda  W.ulc 


u       li 


should  seek  a  place  under  tilt;  fatuous  profcs.S()»  who  ti'j)rc- 
scutcd  the  other  side  of  the  same  eudowiueiit  in  its  nuisculiuc 
euihodiniciit  —  iusliiict  of  di.i>{U«)sis. 

Hilda  Wade  herself  I  will  not  foruially  introduce  to  you  : 
you  will  learn  to  know  her  as  I  proceed  with  my  story. 

I  was  .Sebastian's  assistant,  and  my  recotmnendation  soon 
procured  Hilda  Wailc  the  post  she  so  strangely  coveted. 
Hefore  she  had  been  h.np  at  Nalhaniers,  however,  it  be^au 
to  dawn  upoji  me  that  her  reasons  for  desiriu};  to  attend 
upon  our  revered  Master  were  not  wholly  ami  solely  scien- 
tific. vSebastian,  it  is  true,  reco^nisc'd  her  value  as  a  nurse 
from  the  first  ;  he  not  only  allowed  that  she  was  a  good  as- 
sistant, but  he  also  admitted  that  her  subtle  knowledge  of 
temperament  sometimes  enabled  her  closely  to  approach  his 
own  reasoned  scientific  analysis  of  a  case  and  its  probable  de- 
velopment. "  Most  women,"  he  said  to  me  once,  "  are  (piick 
at  reading  f/upassi>i}>-  cniolion.  They  can  judge  with  astound- 
ing correctness  from  a  shadow  on  one's  face,  a  catch  in  one's 
breatli,  a  movement  of  one's  hands,  how  their  words  or  deeds 
are  affecting  us.  We  cainiot  conceal  our  feelings  from  them. 
But  underlying  character  they  do  not  judge  so  well  as  fleet- 
ing expression.  Not  what  Mrs.  Jones  is  in  herself,  but  what 
Mrs.  Jones  is  now  thinking  and  feeling— there  lies  their  great 
success  as  psychologists.  Most  men,  on  the  contrary,  guide 
their  life  by  definite  /j-r/.v —  by  signs,  by  symptoms,  by  ob- 
served  data.  Medicine  itself  is  built  unon  a  collection  of 
such  reasoned  facts.  But  this  woman.  Nurse  Wade,  to  a 
certain  extent,  stands  intermediate  mentally  between  the 
two  sexes.  She  recognises  timpcravuiit  —  the  fixed  form  of 
character,  and  what  it  is  likely  to  do  —  in  a  degree  which  I 
have  never  seen  equalled  elsewhere.     To  that  extent,  and 


lis 


Tlu-  I\iticnt  will)  Di.^appDinlctl 


ichi 
and 


within   proper   liinils   of   supervision,    I    acknowledge   lier 
faculty  as  a  valuaMe  adjunct  to  n  HcicntiHc  practitioner." 

Still,  thoutjli  Sebastian 
started  with  a  pndisposi 
tion  in  favour  of  Hilda 
Wade  -a  pretty  ^irl  ap- 
peals to  most  of  us  I 
could  sec  from  the  bc- 
^inniuK  that  Hilda  Wade 
washy  no  means  enthusi- 
astic for  Sebastian,  like 
the  rest  of  the  hospital. 
"  He  is  extr  lorclinarily 
able,"  she  would  say. 
when  I  KiiJ^hed  to  her 
about  cur  Master  ;  but 
that  was  the  most  I 
could  ever  extort  from 
her  in  the  way  of  praise. 
Thou);h  .she  admitted  in- 
tellectually Sebastian's 
^i^^antic  mind,  she  would 
never  connnit  herself  to 
anything  that  .sounded 
like  personal  adnnration. 
To  call  him  "  the  prince 
of  physiologists  "  did  not 
satisfy  me  on  that  head. 
I  wanted  her  to  exclaim, 
'*  I  adore  him  !  I  worship  him  !  He  is  glorious,  wonder- 
ful !  " 


HU.DA    WAHK. 


Hilda  Wide 


I  waH  nlMo  aware  from  an  early  datu  that,  in  an  utiohtriiHivc 
way,  Hilda  Wndc  wan  watching  Sihastiaii,  watcliiti^  him 
qiiiutly,  with  those  wistful,  carncHt  eyes,  aM  a  cat  watches  a 
inoiise  liole  ;  watching  liitn  with  unite  iiMiiiiry,  isifhliecx* 
peeled  each  nuMiient  to  see  him  do  sonielhinK  dilTerent  from 
what  the  re«t  of  us  expected  of  him.  .Shnvly  I  KS'theied  tliat 
Hilda  Wade,  in  the  most  litet.d  sense,  had  come  to  Xathan- 
iel's,  as  she  herself  expres^eil  it,  "  to  In*  near  Seltastian." 

(ienlle  and  lovable  as  she  was  in  every  other  aspect,  to- 
wards Sebastian  sheseemeil  like  a  lynx-eyed  detective.  She 
had  some  ol)ject  in  view,  I  thou^;ht,  almost  as  abstract  as  his 
own  —  some  object  to  which,  as  I  judged,  she  was  devoting 
her  life  «|nite  as  sin^le-nnndedly  as  Sib.islian  him.self  had 
devoted  his  to  the  advancement  of  science. 

"  Why  did  she  become  a  nurse  at  all  ?  "  I  asked  once  of 
lier  friend,  Mrs.  Mallet.  "  She  h;is  pkiity  of  money,  and 
Seems  well  enough  off  to  live  without  working." 

"Oh,  dear,  yes,"  Mis.  Mallet  answered.  "  vShe  is  inde- 
pendent, (juite  ;  has  a  tidy  little  income  of  her  own— six  or 
seven  hundred  n  year — and  .she  coidd  choo.se  her  own  society. 
Ikit  she  went  in  for  this  mission  fad  early;  she  did  n't  intend 
to  marry,  .she  said  ;  so  she  would  like  to  lia\'e  some  woik  to 
do  in  life.  Gills  suffer  like  that,  nowadays.  In  her  case, 
the  malady  took  the  form  of  nursinj?." 

"  As  a  rule,"  I  ventured  to  interpose.  "  when  a  pretty  ^irl 
says  she  does  n't  intend  to  marry,  her  remark  is  premature. 

It  only  means " 

rl  savs  it;  't  is  a  .stock 


r>' 


prop- 


erty in  the  popular  ma.s(iue  of  Maiden  Modesty.     But  with 
Hilda  it  is  different.      And  the  difference  is  —  that  Hilda 


means  it 


I 


The  T'ati till  win )  I  )i^.i|»|MmUi(l 


"  VcMi  iirt*  ri^;l»l,  "  I  aiiswiTcil.  "  I  hcllcvi-  hIic  nicaiiH 
il.     V'.t  I  know  one  inuii  at  leant        "  for  I  uiltnircd  her 

* 

iiniitcii^vlv. 

MrH.  Mallet  shook  her  luad  and  smiled.  "  It  is  no  use, 
Dr.  CninhcTk'dvje,"  she  answered.  "  lliKla  will  jiever  marry. 
Never,  that  is  to  s.iy,  till  she  has  attained  souk-  myslerioiiH 
object  she  seeiiiH  to  have  in  view,  ahoiit  vhich  she  never 
spvak"*  t<»  atiyoiic  -not  even  to  mc.  Hnl  1  have  somehow 
^uesstd  it  I  " 

"  .\ii!  it  is?" 

"  Oh.  I  have  not  guessed  what  il  /<  .  I  am  nodvlipus.  I 
have  merely  guessed  that  it  '.xisls.  lint  whatever  it  may  he, 
Hilda's  life  is  honnded  l)y  it.  She  became  a  ntir.sj  to  carry 
it  onl.  I  feel  coiifidt'tit.  !''rom  t!ie  very  beJJ;inninK^  I  vj^ill'^T, 
a  |):irl  of  her  scheme  wa-".  to  k(>  t<>  St.  N'atii  iniel's.  She  was 
always  bolheriiiK  us  to  K've  her  inlrodnclions  lo  Dr.  Sebas- 
tian :  and  when  .she  met  you  at  my  brother  Ilnj^o's,  it  was  a 
])rec()ncerted  arrangement  ;  slie  askeil  to  sit  next  yon,  and 
meant  to  induce  you  to  use  your  influence  on  her  behall'  with 
the  Professor.     She  was  dyinj.?  to  j;et  there." 

"  It  is  ver>-  odd,"  I  uuiSs.d.  "  Hut  there  !  —  women  are 
inexplicable  !  " 

"  And  Hilda  is  in  that  matter  the  very  (|uintc.ssence  of 
woman.  Ivven  I,  who  have  known  her  for  years,  don't  pre- 
tenrl  to  understand  her." 

A  few  months  later,  Sebastian  be^an  his  y:reat  researches 
on  his  new  anccstlietic.  It  was  a  wonderful  set  of  researches. 
It  promised  so  well.  All  Nat's  (as  we  familiarly  and  affec- 
tionately .styled  vSt.  Nathaniel's)  was  in  a  fever  of  excitement 
over  the  dru^  for  a  twelvemonth. 

The  Professor  obtained  his  first  hint  of  the  new  body  by  a 


8 


Hilda  Wade 


mere  accident.  His  friend,  the  Deputy  I'rosector  of  the 
Zoological  Society,  had  mixed  a  draught  for  a  sick  raccoon  at 
the  Gardens,  and,  l)y  some  mistake  in  a  bottle,  had  mixed  it 
wrongly.  (I  purposely  refrain  from  mentionitig  the  ingre- 
dients, as  they  are  drugs  which  can  be  easily  obtained  in 
isolation  at  any  chemist's,  though  when  compounded  they 
form  one  of  the  most  dangerous  and  difficult  to  detect  of 
organic  poisons.  I  do  not  desire  to  play  into  the  hands  of 
would-be  criminals.)  The  compound  on  which  the  Deputy 
Prosector  had  thus  accidentally  lighted  sent  the  raccoon  to 
sleep  in  the  most  extraordinary  manner.  Indeed,  the  raccoon 
slept  for  thirty-six  hours  on  end,  all  attempts  to  awake  him 
by  pulling  his  tail  or  tweaking  his  hair  being  quite  unavail- 
ing. This  was  a  novelty  in  narcotics  ;  so  vSebastian  was 
asked  to  come  and  look  at  the  slumbering  brute.  He  sug- 
gested the  attempt  to  perform  an  operation  on  the  somnolent 
raccoon  l)y  removing,  under  the  influence  of  the  drug,  an  in- 
ternal growth,  which  was  considered  the  probable  cause  of 
his  illness.  A  surgeon  was  called  in,  the  growth  was  found 
and  removed,  and  the  raccoon,  to  everybody's  surprise,  con- 
tinued to  slumber  peacefully  on  his  straw  for  five  hours  after- 
wards. At  the  end  of  that  time  he  awoke,  and  stretched 
himself  as  if  nothing  had  happened  ;  and  though  he  was,  of 
course,  very  weak  from  loss  of  blood,  he  immediately  dis- 
played a  most  royal  hunger.  He  ate  up  all  the  maize  that 
was  olfered  him  for  breakfast,  and  proceeded  to  manifest  a 
desire  for  more  by  most  unequivocal  symptoms. 

Sebastian  was  overjoyed.  He  now  felt  sure  he  had  dis- 
covered a  drug  which  would  supersede  chloroform — a  drug 
more  lasting  in  its  immediate  effects,  and  yet  far  less  harmful 
in  its  ultimate  results  on  the  balance  of  the  system.     A  name 


The  Patient  who  Disappointed  9 

buinp  wanted  for  it,  he  christened  it  "  lethodyne."     It  was 
the  best  pain-hilkr  yet  invented. 

For  the  next  few  weeks,  at  Nat's,  we  heard  of  nothing; 
hut  letliodyne.  Patients  recovered  and  patients  died  ;  l)nt 
their  deaths  or  recoveries  were  as  dross  to  letliodyne,   an 


"  ir    WAS    NO    CDOD;    TIIK    R.MilU'I'S    Al.I.    DIKI). 

anaesthetic  that  might  revolntionise  surgery,  and  even  medi- 
cine !  A  royal  road  through  disease,  with  no  trouble  to  the 
doctor  and  no  pain  to  the  patient  !  Lethodyne  held  the 
field.  We  were  all  of  us,  for  the  moment,  intoxicated  with 
letliodyne. 
Sebastian's  observations  on  the  new  agent  occupied  several 


u 


lO 


Hilda  Wade 


months.  He  had  bejj^uii  with  the  raccoon  ;  he  went  on,  of 
course,  with  those  poor  scapegoats  of  physiology,  domestic 
rabbits.  Not  that  in  this  particuhir  case  any  painful  experi- 
ments were  in  contemplation.  The  Professor  tried  the  drug 
on  a  dozen  or  more  quite  healthy  young  animals — witL  the 
strange  result  that  they  dozed  off  quietly,  and  never  woke  up 
again.  This  nonplussed  Sebastian.  He  experimented  once 
more  on  another  raccoon,  with  a  smaller  dose  ;  the  raccoon  fell 
asleep,  and  slept  like  a  top  for  fifteen  hours,  at  the  end  of 
which  time  he  woke  up  as  if  nothing  out  of  the  common  had 
happened.  Sebastian  fell  back  upon  rabbits  again,  with 
smaller  and  smaller  doses.  It  was  no  good  ;  the  rabbits  all 
died  with  great  unanimity,  until  the  dose  was  so  diminished 
that  it  did  not  send  them  off  to  sleep  at  all.  There  was  no 
middle  course,  apparently,  to  the  rabbit  kind,  lethodyne 
was  either  fatal  or  else  inoperative.  So  it  proved  to  sheep. 
The  new  drug  kilU-d,  or  did  nothing. 

I  will  not  trouble  you  with  all  the  details  of  vSebaslian's 
further  researches  ;  the  curious  will  find  them  discussed  at 
length  in  Volume  237  of  the  Philosophical  Tranmctions.  (See 
also  Comptes  Rcndns  dc  V Acadimie  dc  Medecine :  tome  49, 
pp.  72  and  sequel.)  I  will  restrict  myself  here  to  that  part 
of  the  inquiry  which  immediately  refers  to  Hilda  Wade's 
history. 

"  If  I  were  you,"  she  said  to  the  Professor  one  morning, 
when  he  was  most  astonished  at  his  contradictory  results, 
"  I  would  test  it  on  a  hawk.  If  I  dare  venture  on  a  sugges- 
tion, I  believe  you  will  find  that  hawks  recover." 

"  The  deuce  they  do  !  "  Sebastian  cried.  However,  he 
had  such  confidence  in  Nurse  Wade's  judgment  that  he 
bought  a  couple  of  hawks  and  tried  the  treatment  on  them. 


The  Patient  \vh(i  Disappointed  ii 


i 


Rotli  birds  look  considerable  doses,  and,  after  a  period  of 
iusetisil)ility  extending  to  severnl  lioiirs,  woke  up  in  the  end 
(juite  bright  and  lively. 

"  I  see  your  principle,"  the  Professor  broke  out.  "  It  de- 
pends upon  diet.  Carniv  )res  and  birds  of  prey  can  take 
lelhodyne  with  impunity;  herbivores  and  fruit-eaters  cannot 
recover,  and  die  of  it.  Man,  therefore,  being  partly  car- 
nivorous, will  doubtless  be  able  more  or  less  to  stand  it." 

Hilda  Wade  smiled  her  .sphinx-like  smile.  "  Not  quite 
that,  I  fancy,"  she  answered.  "It  will  kill  cats,  I  feel  sure; 
at  least,  most  domesticated  ones.  liut  it  will  //o/  kill  wea.sels. 
Yet  both  are  carnivores." 

"  That  young  woman  knows  too  much  !  "  vSebastian  mut- 
tered to  me,  looking  after  her  as  she  glided  noiselessly  with 
her  gentle  tread  down  the  long  white  corridor.  "  We  .shall 
have  to  suppress  her,  Cumberledge.  .  .  .  But  I '11  wager 
my  life  she  's  right,  for  all  that.  I  wonder,  now,  how  the 
dickens  .she  guessed  it  !  " 

"  Intuition,"  I  answered. 

He  pouted  his  under  lip  above  the  upper  one,  witli  a  dubi- 
ous acquiescence.  "  Inference,  I  call  it,"  he  retorted.  "All 
woman's  .so-called  intuition  is,  in  fact,  just  rapid  and  half- 
unconscious  inference." 

He  was  so  full  of  the  subject,  however,  and  so  utterly  car- 
ried away  by  his  scientific  ardour,  that  I  regret  to  say  he 
gave  a  strong  dose  of  lethodyne  at  once  to  each  of  the  ma- 
tron's petted  and  pampered  Persian  cats,  which  lounged 
about  her  room  and  were  the  delight  of  the  convalescent.s. 
They  were  two  peculiarly  lazy  sultanas  of  cats — mere  jewels 
of  the  harem — Oriental  beauties  that  loved  to  bask  in  the  .sun 
or  curl  themselves  up  on  the  rug  before  the  fire  and  dawdle 


12 


ii 


I    ,'' 


.ti' 


Hilda  Wade 


away  their  lives  in  congenial  idleness.  vStrange  to  say, 
Hilda's  prophecy  came  true.  Zuleika  settled  herself  down 
conifortal)ly  in  the  Professor's  easy  chair  and  fell  into  a 
sound  sleep  from  which  there  was  no  awaking;  while  Roxana 
met  fate  on  the  tiger-skin  she  loved,  coiled  up  in  a  circle,  and 
passed  from  tliis  life  of  dreams,  without  knowing  it,  into  one 
where  dreaming  is  not.  Sebastian  noted  the  facts  with  a 
quiet  gleam  of  satisfaction  in  his  watchful  eye,  and  explained 
afterwards,  with  curt  glibness  to  tlie  angry  matron,  that  her 
favourites  had  been  "  canonised  in  the  roll  of  science,  as 
painless  martyrs  to  the  advancement  of  physiology." 

The  weasels,  on  the  other  hand,  with  an  equal  dose,  woke 
up  after  six  hours  as  lively  as  crickets.  It  was  clear  that 
carnivorous  tastes  were  not  the  whole  solution,  for  Roxana 
was  famed  as  a  notable  mouser. 

"  Your  principle  ?  "  Sebastian  asked  our  sibyl,  in  his  brief, 
quick  way. 

Hilda's  cheek  wore  a  glow  of  pardonable  triumph.  The 
great  teacher  had  deigned  to  ask  her  assistance.  "  I  judged 
by  the  analogy  of  Indian  hemp,"  she  answered.  "This  is 
clearly  a  similar,  but  much  stronger,  narcotic.  Now,  when- 
ever I  have  given  Indian  hemp  by  your  direction  to  people 
of  sluggish,  or  even  of  merely  bustling  temperament,  I  have 
noticed  that  small  doses  produce  serious  effects,  and  that  the 
afttr-resiilts  are  most  undesirable.  But  when  you  have  pre- 
scribed the  hemp  for  nervous,  overstrung,  imaginative  people, 
I  have  observed  that  they  can  stand  large  amounts  of  the 
tincture  without  evil  results,  and  that  the  after-effects  pass 
off  rapidly.  I  who  am  mercurial  in  temperament,  for  ex- 
ample, can  take  any  amount  of  Indian  hemp  without  being 
made  ill  by  it ;  while  ten  drops  will  send  some  slow  and 


The  Patient  who  Disappointed  13 


torpid  rustics  mad  drunk  witii  excitement — drive  them  into 
homicidal  mania." 

Sebastian  nodf' "'  his  head.  He  needed  no  more  explana- 
tion. "  You  1  iit  it,"  he  said.  "  I  see  it  at  a  glancj. 
The  old  antithesis  !  All  men  and  all  an'  mIs  fall,  roughly 
speaking,  into  two  greut  divisions  of  type  :  ilie  impas.sioned 
and  the  unimpa.ssioned  ;  the  vivid  and  the  phlegmatic.  I 
catch  your  drift  now.  Lethodyne  is  poison  to  phlegmatic 
patients,  who  have  not  active  power  enough  to  wake  up  from 
it  unhurt  ;  it  is  relatively  harmless  to  the  vivid  and  impass- 
ioned, who  can  be  put  a.sleep  by  it,  indeed,  for  a  few  hours 
more  or  less,  but  are  alive  enough  to  live  on  through  the 
coma  and  reas.sert  their  vitality  after  it." 

I  recogni.sed  as  he  .spoke  that  this  explanation  was  correct. 
The  dull  rabbit.s,  the  sleepy  Persian  cats,  and  the  silly  .sheep 
had  died  outright  of  lethodyne  ;  the  cunning,  inquisitive 
raccoon,  the  quick  hawk,  and  the  active,  intense-natured 
weasels,  all  most  eager,  wary,  and  alert  animals,  fidl  of  keen- 
ness and  passion,  had  recovered  quickly. 

"  Dare  we  try  it  on  a  human  subject  ?  "  I  asked,  tentatively. 

Hilda  Wade  answered  at  once,  with  that  unerring  rapidity 
of  hers  :  "  Yes,  certainly  ;  on  a  few — the  right  persons.  /, 
for  one,  am  not  afraid  to  try  it." 

"You?"  I  cried,  feeling  suddenly  aware  how  much  I 
thought  of  her.  "  Oh,  not  j^?^  please,  Nurse  Wade.  Some 
other  life,  less  valuable  !  " 

Sebastian  stared  at  me  coldly.  "  Nurse  Wade  volunteers," 
he  said.  "  It  is  in  the  cause  of  science.  Who  dares  di.s- 
suade  her  ?  That  tooth  of  yours  ?  Ah,  yes.  Quite  suffi- 
cient excuse.  You  wanted  it  out,  Nurse  Wade.  Wells- 
Dinton  shall  operate." 


14 


Hilda  Wade 


Without  a  moment's  litsilatioii,  Hildi  Wade  sat  down  in 
an  easy  cliair  {iiul  took  a  UR'asnred  dose  of  tlie  new  aiitcs- 
tlietic,  proportioned  to  the  averaj^e  difference  in  vveij^ht  l)e- 
tvveen  raccoons  and  humanity.  My  face  displayed  my 
anxiety,  I  suppose,  for  she  turned  to  me,  smiling,  with  (juiet 
confidence.  "  I  know  my  own  constitution,"  she  said,  with 
a  reassuring  glance  that  went  straiglit  to  my  heart.  "  I  do 
not  in  the  least  fear." 

As  for  Sebastian,  he  administered  the  drug  to  her  as  un- 
concernedly as  if  she  were  a  rabbit.  vSL'!)as:;in's  scientific 
coolness  and  calnuiess  have  long  been  the  admiration  of 
younger  practitioners. 

Wells-Dintou  gave  one  wiench.  The  tootli  came  out  as 
though  the  patient  were  a  block  of  marble.  There  was  not 
a  cry  or  a  movement,  such  as  one  notes  when  nitrous  oxide 
is  administered.  Hik^a  Wade  was  to  all  appearance  a  mass 
of  lifeless  flesh.  Vv^e  stood  round  and  watched.  I  was 
trembling  with  terror.  Even  on  Sebastian's  pale  face, 
usually  so  unmoved,  save  by  the  watchful  eagerness  of  scien- 
tific curiosity,  I  saw  signs  of  anxiety. 

After  four  hours  of  profound  slumber  —  breath  hovering, 
as  it  seemed,  between  life  and  death  —  she  began  to  come  to 
again.  In  half  an  hour  more  she  was  wide  awake  ;  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  a.sked  for  a  glass  of  hock,  with  beef 
essence  or  oysters. 

That  evening,  by  six  o'clock,  she  was  quite  well  and  able 
to  go  about  her  duties  as  usual. 

*'  Sebastian  is  a  wonderful  man,"  I  said  to  her,  as  I  entered 
her  ward  on  my  rounds  at  night.  "  His  coolness  astonishes 
me.  Do  you  know,  he  watched  you  all  the  time  you  were 
lying  asleep  there  as  if  nothing  were  the  matter." 


The  l\iticnt  who  Disappointcti  15 


•'Coolness?"    she    inquired,    in    a    quiet    voice.      "Or 

crUs'lty  ?  " 

"  Cruelty  ?  "  I  echoed,  a^hnst.  "  Sebastian  cruel  !  Oh, 
Nurse  Wade,  what  an  idea  !  Why,  he  has  spent  his  whole 
life  in  strivin;;  against  all  odds  to  alleviate  pain.  He  is  the 
apostle  of  philanthropy  !  " 

"  Of  philatithropy,  or  of  science  ?  To  alleviate  pain,  or  to 
learn  the  whole  truth  about  the  human  body  ?  " 

"  Come,  come,  now,"  I  cried.  "  Vou  analy.se  too  far.  I 
will  not  let  even  )'i^//  put  me  out  of  conceit  with  vSebaslian." 
(Her  face  flushed  at  that  "  eve n you' \-  I  almost  fancied  .she 
be^an  to  like  me.)  "  He  is  the  enthusiasm  of  my  life  ;  just 
consider  how  much  he  has  done  for  humanity  !  " 

vShe  looked  le  through  searchingly.  "  I  will  not  destroy 
your  illusion,"  she  answered,  after  a  pause.  "  It  is  a  noble 
and  generous  one.  But  is  it  not  largely  based  on  an  ascetic 
face,  long  white  hair,  and  a  moustache  that  hides  the  cruel 
corners  of  the  mouth  ?  For  the  corners  are  cruel.  Some 
day,  I  will  show  you  them.  Cut  off  the  long  hair,  shave  the 
grizzled  moustache  —  and  what  then  will  remain?"  She 
drew  a  profile  hastily.  "  Just  that,"  and  she  showed  it  me. 
'T  was  a  face  like  Robespierre'. s,  grown  harder  and  older 
and  lined  with  observation.  I  recogniifed  that  it  was  in  fact 
the  essence  of  Sebastian. 

Next  day,  as  it  turned  out,  the  Professor  himself  insisted 
upon  testing  lethodyne  in  his  own  per.son.  All  Nat's 
strove  to  dissuade  him.  "  Your  life  is  so  precious,  sir — 
the  advancement  of  science  !  "  But  the  Professor  was 
adamantine. 

"  Science  can  only  be  advanced  if  men  of  science  will  take 
their  lives  in  their  hands,"  he  answered,  sternly.    "  Besides, 


i6 


Hilda  \V;uIc 


■ 

! 

I 

1 

1 

1 

1 

i 

1 

!  1 

Nurse  Wade  has  tried.  Am  I  to  la^  lichind  a  woman  in  my 
devotion  to  the  cause  of  j)hy.si()h)^ic"al  kn()\vle(l>;e  ?  " 

"  Let  hiuj  try,"  Hilda  Wade  nnirnmred  to  m»i.  "  lie  is 
(juite  ri^lit.  It  will  not  hurt  liitn.  I  have  told  him  already 
he  has  just  the  proper  temperament  to  stand  the  druv;.  Such 
people  are  rare  :  /u-  is  one  of  them.  " 

We  administered  the  dose,  trembling.  vSebaslian  took  it 
like  a  man,  and  dropped  ofT  instantly,  fur  lethodyne  is  at  least 
as  instajitaneous  in  its  operation  as  nitrons  oxide. 

He  lay  lonj;  asleep.     Hilda  and  I  wattdied  him. 

After  he  had  lain  for  some  minutes  .senseless,  like  a  lojj;^,  on 
the  couch  whtre  we  had  placed  him,  Hilda  .stooped  over  him 
quietly  and  lifted  up  the  ends  of  the  j;ri/.zled  moustache. 
Then  she  pointed  one  accusing  finger  at  his  lips.  "  I  told 
you  .so,"  she  murmured,  with  a  note  of  demonstration. 

"  There  is  certainly  something  rather  .stern,  or  even  ruth- 
less, about  the  .set  of  the  face  and  the  firm  ending  of  the  lips," 
I  admitted,  reluctantly. 

"  That  is  why  God  gave  men  moustaches,"  she  mu.sed,  in 
a  low  voice  ;  "  to  hide  the  cruel  corners  of  their  mouths." 

"  Not  ahi'iiys  cruel,"  I  cried. 

"  Sometimes  cruel,  sometimes  cunning,  sometimes  .sensu- 
ous; but  nine  times  out  often  best  ma.sked  by  moustaches." 

"  You  have  a  bad  opinion  of  our  sex  !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Providence  knew  best,"  she  answered.  "  //  gave  you 
mou.staches.  That  was  in  order  that  we  women  might  be 
spared  from  always  seeing  you  as  you  are.  Besides,  I  said 
'  Nine  times  out  of  ten.'  There  are  exceptions  —  such  ex- 
ceptions !  " 

On  second  thought,  I  did  not  feel  sure  that  I  could  quarrel 
with  her  estimate. 


m\ 


The  Patient  who  Disappointed 


n  in  my 

"  lie  is 
alicady 
.     vSiich 

1  took  it 
^  at  least 


a  lop:,  on 
)vt'r  him 
mstaclie. 
•'  I  told 
on. 

'en  ruth- 
iie  lips," 

used,  in 
kiths." 


The  experiment  was  that  time  once  more  successful.  vSe- 
hastian  woke  up  from  the  comatose  state  after  eij^ht  hours, 
not  <|uite  as  fresh  as  Hilda  Wade,  perhaps,  hut  still  tolerably 
alive;  less  alert,  however,  and  complaining!:  of  dull  headache. 
He  was  not  hungry.  Hilda  Wade  shook  her  head  at  that. 
"  It  will  he  of  use  only  in  a  very  few  ca.ses,"  she  said  to  me, 
regretfully  ;  "  and  those  few  will  need  to  be  carefully  picked 
hy  an  acute  observer.  I  see  ♦•e.si.stance  to  the  coma 
is,  even  more  than   I   thouv;ht,  a  matter  of  tem- 


•*  HK   !.AY    LONC.    ASl.KF.P." 


perament.  Why,  so  impassioned  a  man  as  the  Profes.sor 
himself  cannot  entirely  recover.  With  more  sluggish  tem- 
peraments, we  shall  have  deeper  difficulty." 

"  Would  you  call  him  inipa.ssioned  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Most 
people  think  him  so  cold  and  stern." 

She  .shook  her  head.  "  He  is  a  snow-capped  volcano  !  " 
she  answered.  "  The  fires  of  his  life  burn  bright  below. 
The  exterior  alone  is  cold  and  placid." 

However,  starting  from  that  time,  Sebastian  began  a 
course  of  experiments  on  patients,  giving  infinitesimal  doses 


i.S 


Hilda  Wade 


i: 


I  i\ 


tf 


i'  j    f 


at  first,  and  vctitiitiii^  slowly  oti  somewhat  larger  <|U  iiitilics. 
Hilt  only  in  his  own  case  and  Mild.'  s  ctudd  the  result  he 
called  «juitc'  salisf;ulory.  One  dull  and  heavy,  <lrink  sodden 
navvy,  to  whom  he  administered  no  more  than  one-tenth  of 
n  K^'''>'>.  was  drowsy  I'or  a  week,  and  listless  lon^;  alter;  while 
a  fat  washerwom:in  from  West  Ham,  who  took  only  two- 
tenths,  f'dl  so  fast  asleep,  and  snored  so  stertorously,  that 
we  feared  she  was  K<'i"K  to  doze  olV  into  eternity,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  rabbits.  Mothers  of  lar^e  families,  we  noted, 
stood  the  druj;  very  ill:  on  pale  younj;  y!,\rU  of  the  eonsmnp- 
tive  tendency  its  effect  was  not  marked  ;  hut  otdy  a  patient 
here  and  there,  of  excei)tionally  imaginative  and  vivid  tem- 
perament, seemed  al)le  to  endure  it.  Sebastian  was  discour- 
n^ed.  He  saw  the  aiuesthetic  was  not  destined  to  fulfil  his 
first  enthusiastic  humaintariin  expectations.  One  day, 
while  the  iuvestii;ation  was  just  at  this  stay^e,  a  case  was 
admitted  into  the  observation  cots  in  which  Hilda  Wade  took 
a  ]>articular  interest.  The  patient  was  a  ycmn^  girl  named 
Isabel  Huntley  —  tall,  dark,  and  slender,  a  markedly  (piick 
and  imaginative  type,  with  large  black  eyes  which  clearly 
bespoke  a  passionate  nature.  Though  distinctly  hysterical, 
she  was  pretty  and  pleasing.  Her  rich  dark  hair  was  as 
copious  as  it  was  beautiful.  vShe  held  herself  erect  and  had 
a  finely  poised  head.  From  the  first  moment  she  arrived, 
I  could  .see  Nurse  Wade  was  strongly  drawn  towards  her. 
Their  .soids  sympalhi.sed.  Number  Fourteen  —  that  is  our 
impersonal  way  of  describing  rases  —  was  constantly  on 
Hilda's  lips.  "  I  like  the  girl,"  she  f'aid  once.  "  She  is  a 
lady  in  fibre." 

**  And  a  tobacco-trimmer  by  trade,"  Sebastian  added,  sar- 
castically. 


/ 


The  r.ilitiit  who  I  )is.i|>|)()lnti'<l  JO 

Ah  usual.   Hilfla'.H  was  the  trutr  rlcMt'ri,)tioii.      It  went 

(kc'per. 

Ntuulicr  l-oiirtfuti's  ailinciit  wis  a  rare  and  iKciiliar  otic, 
into  which  I  ncfd  not  enter  Ik-rc  witli  prolVs^ional  pri-cision. 
(I  have  (le.scril)eil  the  ca.-.e  rully  lor  my  hrollur  practitioners 
in  my  piper  in  the  lourlh  vohune  of  Sebastian's  .JA>//V/'/.'//.v- 
allnnits. )  It  will  he  enoii>;li  lor  my  present  purpose  to  say, 
iti  hrief.  that  the  lesion  consisted  of  an  internal  j^rowth 
whii.h  is  iilways  dangerous  and  most  often  fital.  hut  which 
nevertheless  is  of  such  a  character  that,  il  it  i»e  once  happily 
eradicateil  i)y  supremely  K*>'"1  sur^^.-ry,  it  uevcr  tends  to 
recur,  and  leaves  the  patient  as  strong'  and  well  as  ever. 
.Sebastian  was.  of  course,  dclij^hted  with  the  splendid  oppor- 
tunity thus  alTorded  him.  "It  is  a  beautiful  case  !  "  he 
cried,  with  profe.ssional  enthusiasm.  "  beautiful  !  Meauti- 
fnl  !  I  never  saw  one  so  deadly  or  so  malignant  before. 
We  are  indeed  in  luck's  way.  .(July  a  miracle  can  save 
her  life.  Cumberled^e,  we  must  proceed  to  perforuj  the 
miiacle." 

Sebastian  loved  such  ca.ses.  They  formed  his  ideal.  He 
did  not  ^re.'itly  admire  the  artificial  prolon^atioti  of  diseased 
and  unwholesome  lives,  which  could  never  be  of  much  use  to 
their  owners  or  anyone  else;  but  when  a  chance  occurred  for 
restorinj;  to  perfect  health  a  valuable  existence  which  nii^ht 
otherwise  be  extiiiKui.shed  before  its  time,  he  positively 
revelled  in  his  beneficent  calling.  *'  What  nobler  object  can 
a  man  propose  to  himself,"  he  ii.sed  to  say,  "  than  to  raise 
j;ood  men  and  true  from  the  dead,  as  it  were,  and  return 
them  whole  and  sound  to  the  family  that  depends  upon 
them  ?  Why,  I  had  fifty  times  rather  cure  an  honest  coal- 
heaver  of  a  wound  in  his  leg  than  give  ten  years  more  lease 


20 


llihb  W.ulc 


;  t 


J 


.ill 


of  life  to  a  polity  lord,  (liscaM-'il  from  top  lo  toe,  who  t'xpcclH 
to  fi  11(1  a  inoiitli  ol  Carlsliad  or  ilotnhiitL;  oiuc  cvcrv  vcar 
make  tip  for  eleven  months  oi  ovcr-eatiiiK,  overdrinking, 
vnlv;ar  (lehaiu  iiery,  and  ninlerthinkin);."  lie  had  nr>  s>in- 
pathy  with  men  who  lived  the  lives  of  swine  :  his  heart  was 
with  the  workers. 

Of  course,  Hilda  Wade  soon  suf^gesteil  that,  ns  an  opera- 
tion was  ahsolntely  necessiiry,  Nnnd)cr  I''onrteen  would  he  a 
.spleiulid  subject  on  whom  to  test  once  more  the  elfecls  of 
lethodyne.  Sebastian,  with  his  head  on  one  side,  surveying? 
the  patient,  |)ron>|)lly  coincided.  "  Nervous  ilialhesis, "  he 
ol>serveil.  "  Very  vivid  fancy.  Twitches  her  hands  the 
ri^ht  way.  (^uick  pulse,  rapid  perceptions,  no  meanin^;less 
unrest,  hut  deep  vitality.     I  don't  (loul)t  she  '11  stand  it." 

Wc  explained  to  Number  I^'ourteeu  the  gravity  of  the  case, 
and  also  the  tentative  character  of  the  operation  under  letho- 
dyne. At  first,  .she  .shrank  fiom  taking  it.  "  No,  no  !  "  .she 
.said  ;  "  let  me  die  (juietlN ."  Hut  Hilda,  like  the  An^el  of 
Mercy  that  .she  was,  whispered  in  the  ii,'\rVH  ear  :  "  //'it  suc- 
ceeds, you  will  get  (juite  well,  and — you  can  marry  Arthur." 

The  patient's  dark  face  flushed  crimson. 

"Ah  !  Arthur,"  .she  cried.  "  Dear  Arthur  !  I  can  bear 
anything  you  choose  to  do  to  nie  —  for  Arthur  !  " 

"  How  soon  ^ou  find  the.se  things  out  !  "  I  cried  to  Hilda, 
a  few  minutes  later.  "  A  mere  man  would  never  have 
thought  of  that.     And  who  is  Arthur  ?  " 

"  A  sailor— on  a  ship  that  trades  with  the  vSouth  Seas.  I 
hope  he  is  worthy  of  her.  Fretting  over  Arthur's  absence 
has  aggravated  the  case.  He  is  home'.vard-bound  now. 
She  is  worrying  herself  to  death  for  fear  she  should  not  live 
to  say  good-bye  to  him." 


.   i( 


* 


The  Patient  who  I)isa|)i)()intccl  21 

"  Sl»c  will  live  to  marry  him,"  I  answered,  with  <  jufidencc 
like  her  own.  '*  if  r<»w  say  she  can  .slant!  it." 

•*  The  KlhcMlyiie  oh,  yes;  ///<»/ 'i  all  ri^lit.  Mtit  the  opera- 
tion it.self  is  HO  extremely  danKerons  ;  though  Dr.  Sehasiiuii 
nays  he  has  called  In  the  hest  snrK*eon  in  London  for  nil  such 
caMeH.  They  are  nre,  he  tells  me  —  and  Nielsen  h.is  per- 
formed on  six,  three  of  them  snccessfnlly." 

We  ^i\\'^  the  ^(irl  the  dni^.  She  t(K)k  it,  tremhlinvj,  :tnd 
went  olTat  oncv,  holding;  IliUla's  hand,  with  .'i  p.ile  smilf  on 
her  f.ice,  which  |)er.Histed  there  sojnewhat  weirdly  all  thron>;h 
the  operation.  The  work  of  removing?  the  >;rowth  was  lon^ 
and  ^ii.i^tly,  even  for  ns  who  were  well  seasoned  to  snch 
sights;  bnt  at  the  end  Nielsen  expres.sed  himself  as  perfectly 
satisfied.  "  A  very  neat  piece  of  work  !  "  Sebastian  ex- 
claimed, looking;:  on.  **  I  conj^ratulate  you,  Nielsen.  I 
never  saw  anything;  done  cleaner  or  better." 

*'  A  .successful  operation,  certaiidy  I  "  the  great  surgeon 
admitted,  with  just  pride  in  the  Master's  commendation. 

**  -///</ the  patietit  ?  "  Hilda  asked,  wavering. 

*'  Oh,  the  patient  ?  The  patient  will  die,"  Nielsen  rej)lied, 
in  an  unconcerned  voice,  wiping  his  spotless  in.struments. 

"  That  is  not  my  idea  of  the  medical  art,"  I  cried,  .shocked 
at  his  callousness.     "  An  operation  is  only  successful  if " 

He  regarded  me  with  lofty  .scorn.  "  A  certain  percentage 
of  lo.sses,"  he  interrupted,  cahnly,  "  is  inevitable,  of  course, 
in  all  surgical  operations.  W^e  are  obliged  to  average  it. 
How  could  I  preserve  my  precision  and  accuracy  of  hand  if 
I  were  always  bothered  by  sentimental  considerations  of  the 
patient's  .safety  ?  " 

Hilda  Wade  looked  up  at  me  with  a  sympathetic  glance. 
"  We  will  pull  her  through  yet,"  she  murmured,  in  her  soft 


r: 


32 


Hilda  W.ulc 


^  !; 


I 


voice,  **  if  care  and  skill  can  do  it, — my  care  and  jvv/;- skill. 
This  is  now '>///•  i)atiLtit,  Dr.  CunibL-rlcdge." 

It  needed  care  ami  skill.  We  watched  her  for  hours,  and 
she  .showed  no  si^n  or  gleam  of  recovery.  Ikr  sleep  was 
ileeper  th:ni  either  vSehastian's  or  Hilda's  had  been.  She 
had  t:iken  a  bi^  do.se,  so  as  to  .secnre  inunc^bilit)'.  Tlie(ines- 
tion  now  was,  would  she  recover  at  all  from  it  ?  Hour  after 
hour  we  WMit'.d  and  watched;  and  not  a  .si.y;n  of  movement  ! 
Only  the  same  deep,  slow,  hampered  breathing,  the  same 
feeble,  jerky  pulse,  the  same  denthly  pallor  on  the  dark 
cheeks,  the  same  corpse-like  rigidity  of  lind)  and  nuiscle. 

At  last  our  patient  stirred  faintly,  as  in  a  dream  ;  her 
breath  faltered.  We  bent  over  her.  Was  it  death,  or  was 
she  beginning  to  recover  ? 

Very  .slowly,  a  faint  trace  of  colour  came  back  to  her 
cheeks.  Her  heavy  eyes  half  opiMied.  They  stared  first 
with  a  white  stare.  Her  arms  dropped  by  her  side.  Her 
month  relaxed  its  gha.stly  smile.  .  .  .  W^e  held  our 
breath.     .     .     .     She  was  coming  to  again  ! 

But  her  coming  to  was  slow — very,  very  .slow.  Her  pulse 
was  still  weak.  Her  heart  pumped  feebly.  We  feared  she 
might  sink  from  inanition  at  any  moment.  Hilda  Wade 
knelt  on  the  floor  by  the  girl's  side  and  held  a  spoonful  of 
beef  essence  coaxingly  to  her  lips.  Number  Fourteen 
gasped,  drew  a  long,  slow  breath,  then  gulped  and  swal- 
lowed it.  After  that  she  lay  back  with  her  mouth  open, 
looking  like  a  corpse.  Hilda  pressed  another  spoonful  of 
the  .soft  jelly  upon  her  ;  but  the  girl  waved  it  away  with  one 
trembling  hand.  "  Let  me  die,"  she  cried.  "  Let  me  die  ! 
I  feel  dead  already." 

Hilda  held  her  face  close.     "  Isabel,"  she  whispered — and 


I 


The  Patient  who  Disappointed  23 


?//;•  skill. 

)urs,  and 
1l'C]>  was 
LMi.  vSlie 
'llL'  (iiics- 

onr  aflLT 
ivcmcnt  ! 
the  same 
the  dark 
Liscle. 
am  ;  her 
h,  or  was 

k   to  her 

ired  first 

le.     Her 

leld   our 

ler  pulse 
jared  she 
la  Wade 
)ouful  of 
n^nrteen 
n\  swal- 
h  open, 
nful  of 
.villi  one 
me  die  ! 

id — and 


3 


I  reco^nist-'d  in  her  tone  the  vast  moral  difference  between 
"  Isabel"  and  "  Number  iMMirteen,"— "  Is-a-bel.  you  nuist 
take  it.      I''or  Arthur's  sake,  I  say.  you  w/^v/  take  it." 

The  girl's  hand  (juivered  as  it  lay  on  the  white  coverlet. 
"  For  Arthur's  .sake  !  "  she  nuirmured,  lifting;  her  eyelids 
dreamily.     "  h'or  Arthur's  .sake  !     Ves,  nurse,  dear  !  " 

"  Call  me  Hilda,  please  !     Hilda  !  " 


"SIIK    snoWKI)    NO    SKIN    OK    KK<()V  KKV. 

The  girl's  face  lij^hted  up  again.  "  Ves.  Hilda,  dear," 
.she  answered,  in  an  unearthly  voice,  like  om.'  raised  from 
the  dead.  "  I  will  call  you  what  you  will.  Angel  of  light, 
you  have  been  so  good  to  me." 

vShe  opened  her  lips  with  an  effort  and  slowly  svvallowed 
another  spoonful.  Then  she  fell  back,  exhausted.  But  her 
pulse  improved  within  twenty  minutes.  I  mentioned  the  mat- 
ter, with  enthusia.sm,  to  Sebastian  later.  "  It  is  very  nice  in 
its  way,"  he  answered  ;  "  but     .     .     .     it  is  not  nursing." 


fl 


24 


Hilda  Wade 


}. 


I* 


I  thought  to  myself  that  that  was  just  what  it  7('ns  ,•  hut  T 
did  not  say  so.  Sebastian  was  a  man  wlio  thought  meanly 
of  women.  "  A  doctor,  like  a  priest,"  he  used  to  declare, 
"  should  keep  himself  unmarried.  His  bride  is  medicine." 
And  he  disliked  tp  see  what  he  called  philandcyiuii  going  on  in 
his  hospital.  It  may  have  been  on  that  account  that  I  avoided 
speaking  much  of  Hilda  Wade  thenceforth  before  him. 

He  looked  in  casually  next  day  to  see  the  patient.  "  She 
will  die,"  he  said,  with  perfect  assurance,  as  we  passed  down 
the  ward  together.  "  Operation  has  taken  too  much  out  of 
her." 

"  Still,  she  has  great  recuperative  powers,"  Hilda  an- 
swered. *'  They  all  have  in  her  family.  Professor.  You 
may,  perhaps,  remember  Joseph  Huntley,  ^  '^o  occupied 
Number  Sixty-seven  in  the  Accident  Ward,  some  nine 
months  since  —  compound  fracture  of  the  arm  —  a  dark,  ner- 
vous engineer's  assistant  —  very  hard  to  restrain  —  well, 
he  was  her  brother;  he  caught  typhoid  fever  in  the  hospital, 
and  you  commented  at  the  time  on  his  strange  vitality.  Then 
there  was  her  cousin,  again,  Ellen  Stul)bs.  We  had  her  for 
stubborn  chronic  laryngitis  —  a  very  bad  case  —  anyone  else 
would  have  died  —  yielded  at  once  to  your  treatment  ;  and 
made,  I  recollect,  a  splendid  convalescence." 

"  What  a  memory  you  have  !  "  Sebastian  cried,  fnlr.vring 
against  hii  will,  "It  is  simply  marvellous  !  I  never  :  iw 
anyone  like  you  in  my  life  .  .  .  except  once.  He  was 
a  man,  a  doctor,  a  colleague  of  mine — dead  long  ago.    .    .    . 

Why "  he  mused,  and  gazed  hard  at  her.     Hilda  shrank 

before  his  gaze.  "  This  is  curious,"  he  went  on  slowlj-,  at 
last ;  **  very  curious.     You  —  why,  you  resemble  him  !  " 

"  Do  I  ?  "  Hilda  replied,  with  forced  calm,  raising  her  eyes 


ill 


The  Patient  who  Disappointed  25 

to  his.  Tlieir  glances  met.  That  moment,  I  saw  each  had 
recogniseil  something  ;  and  from  that  (hiy  forth  I  was  in- 
.stinctively  aware  that  a  (hid  was  being  waged  i)etween  Se- 
bastian and  Hilda. —  a  dnel  between  the  two  ablest  and  most 
singular  personalities  I  had  ever  met  ;   a  duel  of  life  and 


THKn<    (U.ANCr.S    MKT. 


death  —  though  I  did  not  fully  understand  its  purport  till 
much,  much  later. 

Every  day  after  that,  the  poor,  wasted  girl  in  Number 
Fourteen  grew  feebler  and  fainter.  Her  temperature  rose  ; 
her  heart  throbbed  weakly.  She  seemed  to  be  fading  away. 
Sebastian  shook  his  head.     "  Lethodyne  is  a  failure,"  he 


26 


Hilda  W'adr 


^.  i 


s;ii{l.  with  a  iiu)nrtifnl  r(.'j;^rL't.  "  One  caiinot  trust  it.  The* 
case  mi^lit  have  rucovercd  from  tlu-  operation,  or  recov- 
ered Ironi  the  drui;;  hut  she  ('onld  not  recover  from  l)f)th 
together.  Vet  the  operation  would  have  heeu  inipossihh' 
williout  the  dru^.  and  the  dru^  is  useless  except  for  the 
operatic)!!." 

It  was  a  };reat  disappointiueut  to  him.  He  hid  him.self  in 
his  room,  as  was  his  wont  wIkii  disapj)ointed,  and  went  on 
with  his  old  work  at  his  l)eloved  microbes. 

"  I  have  one  hope  still,"  Ililila  nmrnuired  to  me  by  the 
bedside,  when  oui  patient  was  at  her  worst.  "If  one  cou- 
tin.y:eucy  occurs,  I  believe  we  may  .save  her." 

"  What  is  that?"  I  asked. 

vShe  shook  her  head  waywardly.  "  Yon  nuist  wait  and 
.see,"  she  answered.  "  If  it  comes  off,  I  will  tell  you.  If 
not,  let  it  swell  the  lindx)  of  lost  inspirations." 

Next  mornini;-  early,  however,  .she  came  up  to  me  with  a 
radiant  fice,  holdini;-  a  newspaper  in  her  hand.  "  Well,  it 
/iiis  happened  !  "  .she  cried,  rejoicing.  "  We  shall  .save  poor 
Isabel  —  Nundier  I'^ourteen,  I  mean  ;  our  way  is  clear,  Dr. 
Cumberledge." 

I  followed  her  blindly  to  the  bedside,  little  guessing  what 
she  could  mean.  She  knelt  ilowu  at  the  head  of  the  cot. 
The  girl's  eyes  were  closed.  I  touched  her  cheek  ;  she  was 
in  a  high  fever.     "  Temperature  ?  "  I  asked. 

'■  A  huudre'^  and  three." 

I  .shook  my  head.  Every  s^-mptom  of  fatal  relap.se.  I 
could  not  imagine  what  card  Hilda  held  in  reserve.  But  I 
stood  there,  waiting. 

She  whispered  in  the  girl's  ear  :  "  Arthur's  ship  is  .sighted 
off  the  L,izard." 


'I'hc  Pjtiriit  who  I  )is.i|)j)()intc(l 


t.  The 
'  rccov- 
>in  holli 
possible 
for  tlie 

iisclf  in 
went  on 

.'  ))>•  the 
>ne  con- 


i  with  11 

Well,  it 

ve  poor 

ar,  Dr. 


The  patii'tit  npriied  her  eyes  slowly,  and  rolled  Iheni  for  a 
tiumient  as  if  she  difl  nc»t  nndersland. 

"  Too  late  !  "  I  cried.  "  Too  l:ite  !  vShe  is  delirions  — in- 
seiisibk-  !  " 

Hilda  repeated  the  words  slowly,  but  very  distinctly. 
"  I)i)  you  iiear,  dear  ?     Arthur's  ship     .     .     .     it  is  si};hled. 

.     .     Arlhur's  ship     .     .     .     at  the  IJ/.ard." 

The  ^Mrl's  lij)s  moved.  "  Arthur  '  Arthur  !  .  .  . 
Arthur's  ship  !  "  A  deep  si^^i.  She  clenched  her  hands. 
"  He  is  counu}.':  ?  "  Hilda  nodded  and  siniletl,  holding  her 
breath  with  suspense. 

"  I'p  the  Cluuniel  now.  He  will  be  at  vSouthanii)ton  to- 
nis^iit.  Arthur  .  .  .  at  .Southaniptou.  It  ishere,  in  the  pa|)ers. 
I  have  telei;raphed  to  him  to  hurry  on  at  once  to  see  you." 

She  struj^i^led  up  for  a  second.  A  smile  flitted  across  the 
worn  face.     Then  she  fell  brick  wearily. 

I  thought  all  was  over.  Her  eyes  stared  white.  Hut  ten 
minutes  later  she  opened  her  lids  a^ain.  "  Arthur  is  com- 
inj;."  .she  nuirmured.     "Arthur     .     .     .     comini^." 

"  Yes,  dear.     Now  sleep.     He  is  coming." 

All  through  that  day  and  the  next  ni,i;ht  .she  was  restless 
and  at^itated  ;  but  still  her  pulse  improved  a  little.  Next 
morning  .she  was  again  a  trifle  better.  Temperature  filling 
—  a  hundred  and  one,  point  three.  At  ten  o'clock  Hilda 
came  in  to  her,  radiant. 

"  Well,  Isabel,  dear,"  .she  cried,  bending  down  and  touch- 
ing her  cheek  (kissing  is  forbidden  by  the  rules  of  the  house), 
"  Arthur  has  come.  He  is  here  .  .  .  down  below 
.     .     .     I  have  seen  him." 

"  Seen  him  !  "  the  girl  gasped. 

"  Yes,  seen  him.     Talked  with  him.     Such  a  nice,  manly 


28 


Hilda  Wade 


■  I 

1: 

1 

I 

:!' 

ill' 

1 

f 

1. 

i'  ■ 

/    ' 

fellow  ;  and  such  an  honest,  j^oocl  face  !  lie  is  longiiip  for 
you  to  j?et  well.  He  says  he  has  come  home  this  time  to 
marry  you."  • 

The  wan  lips  {juivered.     "  He  will  unrr  mnrry  me  !  " 
"  Ves,   yes,   he  riv// — if  you  will  take  this  jelly.     Look 
here  —  he  wrote  these  words  to  you  before  my  very  eyes: 
'  Dear  love  to  my  Isa  !  '     .     .     .     If  you  are  good,  and  will 
sleep,  he  may  see  you  —  to-morrow." 

The  ^irl  opened  her  lips  and  ate  the  jelly  p:reedily.  She 
ate  as  much  as  she  was  desired.  In  three  minutes  more  her 
head  had  fallen  like  a  child's  upon  her  pillow  and  .she  was 
.sleeping  peacefully. 

I  went  up  to  Sebastian's  room,  quite  excited  with  the 
news.  He  was  busy  among  his  bacilli.  They  were  his 
hobby,  his  pets.  "  Well,  what  do  you  think,  Professor?" 
I  cried.     "  That  patient  of  Nurse  Wade'.s " 

He  gazed  up  at  me  abstractedly,  his  brow  contracting. 
"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  know,"  he  interrupted.  "  The  girl  in  Four- 
teen. I  nave  discounted  her  case  long  ago.  vShe  has  ceased 
to  interest  me.  .  .  .  Dead,  of  course!  Nothing  else  was 
possible." 

I  laughed  a  quick  little  laugh  of  triumph.  "  No,  .sir  ;  ?iof 
dead.  Recovering  !  vShe  has  fallen  just  now  into  a  normal 
sleep  ;  her  breathing  is  natural." 

He  wheeled  his  revolving  chair  away  from  the  germs  and 
fixed  me  with  his  keen  eyes.  *'  Recovering  ?  "  he  echoed. 
"  Impossible  !  Rallying,  you  mean.  A  mere  flicker.  I 
know  my  trade.     She  9fif/s/  die  this  evening." 

*'  Forgive  my  persistence,"  I  replied  ;  "  but  —  her  tem- 
perature has  gone  down  to  ninety-nine  and  a  trifle." 


ft 


The  Patient  who  Disappointed  29 

He  pushed  away  the  l)acilli  in  tlie  nearest  watch-Rlass 
quite  angrily.  "  To  ninety-nine  !  "  he  exclaimed,  knitting 
liis  l)ro\vs.  "  Cuniberledge,  tliis  is  disgraceful  !  A  most 
disappointing  case  !     A  most  provoking  patient  !  " 


SllK    orCJMT    'I'D    IIAVK    niKI). 


"  But  surely,  sir "  I  cried. 

"  Don't  talk  to  vie,  boy  !  Don't  attempt  to  apologise  for 
her.  Such  conduct  is  unpardonable.  She  ought  to  have 
died.  It  was  her  clear  duty.  I  said  she  would  die,  and  she 
should  have  known  better  than  to  fly  in  the  face  of  the 


30 


Hilda  Wade 


I'   i' 


faculty.  Iltr  recovery  is  iiti  insult  to  medical  science. 
What  is  the  staff  about?  Nurse  Wade  should  have  pre- 
vented it." 

"  vStili,  sir,"  I  exclaimed,  tryinjj:  to  touch  him  on  a  tender 
spot,  "the  antesthetic,  >ou  know!  Such  a  triumph  lor 
lethodyne  !  This  case  shows  ckaily  that  on  certain  con- 
stitutions it  may  he  used  with  advantage  luider  certain 
conditions." 

He  snapped  his  finders.  "  lyethodyne  !  pooh  !  I  have 
lost  inlere.it  in  il.  Impracticable  !  It  is  not  fitted  for  the 
human  sj)ecies." 

"  Why  so  ?     Number  Fourteen  proves " 

He  interrupted  me  with  an  imj>:Uient  wave  of  his  hand  ; 
then  he  rose  and  paced  up  and  dovvr.  the  room  testily.  Ailer 
a  pause,  he  spoke  aj^ain,  "  The  v.'enk  point  of  lethodyne  is 
this  :  nobody  can  be  trusted  to  say  when  it  may  be  used  — 
except  Nurse  Wade, — which  is  not  science." 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  had  a  *;limmering  idea  that 
I  distrusted  Sebastian.  Hilda  Wade  was  right  —  the  man 
was  cruel.  lUit  I  had  never  observed  his  cruelty  l)efore  — 
because  his  devotion  to  science  had  blinded  me  to  it. 


it 


f 


n 


science, 
ivc  pre- 

1  toiuler 

npli  for 

liii  con- 

certaiii 

I  have 
for  tlie 


s  liaiul  ; 

.     Alter 

odviie  is 

used  — 

ea  that 
le  mail 
ifore  — 


"-'^.'m 


CIIAPTICR   II 

'\\\V.    I'l'ISODl':    ()!•    TIM',   (IICNTI.I'MAN   WHO    HAH   I'AII.i:!)    I'OK 

i:vi:RVTiiiN(i 

ONE  (lay,  about  tliosc  times,  I  WL'iit  roiiiid  to  call  on 
my  aunt,  Lady  Tcppin*;.  And  lest  you  accuse  me 
of  the  vulvar  desire  to  flaunt  my  fine  relations  in 
yonr  face,  I  hasten  to  add  that  my  poor  dear  old  aunt  is  a 
very  ordinary  specimen  of  the  common  Army  widow.  Her 
husband,  Sir  Malcolm,  a  crusty  old  j;enllenian  of  the  ancient 
school,  was  knighted  in  Burma,  or  thereat m)uIs,  for  a  sue- 
cessfnl  raid  upon  naked  natives,  on  somethini;  that  is  called 
the  SImu  frontier.  When  he  had  *;rown  grey  in  the  .serv- 
ice of  his  yueeii  and  country,  besides  earning  himself  in- 
cidentally a  very  decent  pension,  he  acquired  gout  and  went 
to  his  long  rest  in  Kensal  Green  Cemetery.  He  left  his  wife 
with  one  daughter,  and  the  only  pretence  to  a  title  in  our 
otherwise  blameless  family. 

My  cousin  Daphne  is  a  very  pretty  girl,  with  those  quiet, 
sedate  manners  which  often  develop  later  in  life  into  genuine 
.self-respect  and  real  depth  of  character.  Fools  do  not  ad- 
mire her  ;  they  accuse  her  of  being  "  heavy."  But  she  can 
do  without  fools  ;  she  has  a  fine,  strongly  bnilt  figure,  an  up- 
right carriage,  a  large  and  broad  forehead,  a  firm  chin,  and 

31 


ir 


f 


3» 


Ilil.l.i  Watic 


tl 


«• 


i 


features  which,  th()U^h  well  inarki-il  and  wcll-tnouldcd,  are 
yet  delicate  in  outline  and  sensitive  in  ex»>ressi()n.  Very 
young  men  seliloni  take  to  Daphne  :  she  lacks  the  desired 
inanity.  Hut  she  has  mind,  repose,  and  won.anly  tender- 
ness. Indeed,  if  she  had  not  been  my  cousin,  I  :dmost  think 
I  might  once  have  l)een  tempted  to  fall  in  love  with  her. 

When  I  reached  Gloucester  Terrace,  on  this  particular 
afternoon,  I  found  Hilda  Wade  there  before  me,  vShe  had 
lunched  at  my  aunt's,  in  fart.  It  was  her  "  day  out  "  at  St. 
Nathaniel's,  and  she  had  come  round  to  spend  it  with  Daplnie 
Tepping.  I  had  introduced  her  to  the  house  some  time  be- 
fore, and  she  and  my  cousin  had  .struck  up  a  close  accpiaint- 
ance  innnediately.  Their  temjH.'raments  were  sympathetic  ; 
Daphne  admired  Hilda's  depth  and  reserve,  while  Hilda 
adnnred  Daphne's  grave  grace  and  self-control,  her  perfect 
freedom  from  current  affectations.  She  neither  giggled  nor 
aped  Ih.senism. 

A  third  j)erson  stood  back  in  the  room  when  I  entered — a 
tall  and  somewhat  jerry-built  young  man,  with  a  rather  long 
and  .solenni  face,  like  an  early  stage  in  the  evolution  of  a  Don 
Quixote.  I  took  a  good  look  at  him.  There  was  something 
about  his  air  that  impres.sed  me  as  both  lugubrious  and 
humorous  ;  and  in  this  I  was  right,  for  I  learned  later  that 
he  was  onj  of  tho.se  rare  people  who  can  sing  a  comic  song 
with  immen.se  success  while  preserving  a  sour  countenance, 
hke  a  Puritan  preacher's.  His  eyes  were  a  little  sunken, 
his  fingers  long  and  nervous  ;  but  I  fancied  he  looked  a  good 
fellow  at  heart,  for  all  that,  though  foolishly  impulsive.  He 
was  a  punctiHous  gentleman,  I  felt  sure;  his  face  and  manner 
grew  upon  one  rapidly. 

Daphne  rose  as  I  entered,  and  waved  the  stranger  forward 


Wi 


The  (iciUicinaii  who  had  I-aiKd  ^^ 

with  at»  imperious  little  wave.  I  itu;iKine<l,  indceil,  tliat  I  ilc* 
tccted  in  the  n^'-'^t"''*-'  ''  taitit  toiuli  iil  half-mu'  Miscious  pro- 
prittorsiiip.  "  (tood  niorniti^,  llultcrt,  "  she  sud,  lakiu^^ 
my  hand,  l)Ut  lurtMiiK  towards  the  tall  younj;  mati.  "  ! 
don't  think  yon  know  Mr.  Cecil  Ilolsworthy." 

"  I  have  luard  you  speak  of  him,"  I  answered,  drinking 


Sllh.    AMI    MV    CorsiN    HAD   hlRL'CK    Ul'   A   (I.osK    A((.ilAINTANCI",." 


him  in  with  my  glance.  I  added  internally,  **  Not  half  good 
enough  for  you." 

Hilda's  eyes  met  mine  and  read  my  thought.  They 
flashed  back  word,  in  the  language  of  eyes,  *'  I  do  not  agree 
with  you." 

Daphne,  meanwhile,  was  watching  me  closely.  I  could 
see  she  was  anxious  to  di.scover  what  impression  her  friend 


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Hilda  Wailc 


Nfr.  irf)ls\v()ttliy  w.JH  ninkltj^j  on  inc.  Till  thoti,  T  had  no 
\t\v,\  slie  Wiis  loni)  of  anyone  in  particnl.\r  ;  hnt  the  way  her 
«;Iancc  waniU'icd  from  him  to  nic  and  from  mc  to  llihUi 
showed  rlcarly  that  slic  th«)n);lit  nnich  of  this  ^awky  visitor. 

\\\'  sat  and  tulki-d  tov;;cthcr,  wv  fonr,  for  Home  time.  I 
tcnnd  the  yonn^;  man  witii  the  In^nhrions  conntenancc  im- 
proved immensely  on  closer  nc(|unintance.  His  talk  was 
clever.  lie  tnrned  ont  to  be  the  san  of  a  politician  hi^;h  in 
office  in  the  Canudian  (»overMinent,  and  lie  had  heen  edu- 
cated at  Oxford.  TIk'  father,  I  ^-ithrred,  was  ricii,  Imt  he 
himself  was  luakiii);  an  income  of  nothing  a  year  jnst  then 
as  a  brit^tU'SS  barrister,  and  he  was  hesitatiiivj  whether  to 
accept  a  post  of  secretary  that  had  been  oJTcred  him  in  the 
colony,  or  to  continue  his  negative  career  at  the  Inner 
Temple,  for  the  honour  and  ^lory  of  it. 

"  Now,  whicii  would  yo//  advise  me,  Miss  '*  *ppinj;  ?  "  he 
inquired,  after  we  had  discussed  the  matter  ;  ndnutes. 

Daphne's  face  (lushed  u]).  "  It  is  so  hard  to  decide,"  she 
answered.  "  To  decide  to  yo if r  best  advantage,  I  mean,  of 
course.  Kor  naturally  all  your  ICnj;lisli  friends  would  wish 
to  keep  you  as  lori>;  as  possible  in  Iviij;iand." 

"  No,  do  you  think  .so?"  the  jjjawky  youn^  man  jerked 
out  with  evident  pleasure.  "  Now,  that  's  awfully  kind  of 
you.  Do  you  know,  i{  yoft  tell  me  I  ought  to  stay  in  Kng- 
land,  I  've  half  a  mind  .  .  .  I  '11  cable  over  this  very 
day  and  refuse  the  appointment." 

Daphne  flushed  once  more.  "Oh,  please  don't  !  "  .she  ex- 
claimed, looking  frij^htencd.  "  I  shall  be  quite  distressed  if 
a  stray  word  of  mine  should  debar  you  from  accepting  a  good 
offer  of  a  secretaryship. ' ' 

"Why,  your  least  wish— — "  the  young  man  began  — 


The  (iriUkni.in  who  h.nl  l-aiUd 


.;5 


then  checked  hliiiHclf  hastily  —  "must  l>c  ulw.iyH  import- 
out,"  lie  went  on,  in  a  (lilTorcnt  voice,  "  lo  cvcrycmc  of 
y<mr  ac'<ni;iintancc." 

Daphnr  tone  hurriedly.  "  Look  here,  Ilild  i."  she  saitl,  a 
little  tremiilouslN .  Mlin^  lur  lip,  "  I  have  to  >;o  ont  into 
Wcstliourne  (trove  to  j;ct  those  j;loves  for  toni^jht,  and  a 
Hpray  for  my  hair  ;  will  you  excuse  me  for  halfim  lM)ur  ?** 

Holsworthy  rose  too.  "  May  n't  I  ^o  with  you  ?  '  he 
asked,  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  if  you  like.  How  very  kind  of  you  I  "  D.iphne  an- 
Hwercd,  her  cheek  a  hlush  rose.  "  Hubert,  will  you  come 
too  ?  and  you,  Hilda  ?  " 

It  was  one  of  those  invitations  which  are  ^iveu  to  he  re- 
fused. I  did  not  need  Hilda's  warninj;  j;lance  to  tell  me 
that  my  company  ^ oulil  he  (|uite  supcrduous.  I  felt  those 
two  wi're  best  left  together. 

"  It  's  no  u.se,  IIjoukIi,  Dr.  Cumlierledge  !  "  HiM.i  put  in, 
as  .soon  as  ihey  were  gone.  "  He  r.v>;/7  piopose,  thouj^h  he 
has  had  every  eiu'ouraKement.  I  don't  know  what  's  the 
luatler  ;  but  I  've  been  walchiuK  them  both  for  weeks,  and 
somehow  thinj.;s  seem  never  to  get  any  forwarder." 

"  Vou  think  he  's  in  love  with  her  ?  "  I  a.sked. 

"  In  love  with  her  I  Well,  you  have  eye.s  in  your  head,  I 
know  ;  where  could  they  have  been  looking  ?  He  's  madly 
in  love — a  very  good  kind  of  love,  too.  He  genuinely  ad- 
mires and  respects  and  appreciates  all  Daphne's  sweet  and 
charming  qualities." 

"  Then  what  do  you  suppose  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  have  an  inkling  of  the  truth  :  I  imagine  Mr.  Cecil 
must  have  let  himself  in  for  a  prior  attachment." 

**  If  so,  why  does  he  hang  about  Daphne  ?  " 


T 


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Hilda  Wade 


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"  Recaiisc  —  he  can't  help  himself.  He  's  a  ji^ood  fellow 
and  a  chivalrons  fellow.  He  admires  3  our  cousin  ;  hut  lie 
must  have  j;ot  himself  into  some  foolish  entanglement  el.se- 
where  which  he  is  too  honourable  to  break  off ;  while  at  the 
same  time  he  's  far  too  much  impressed  by  Daphne's  fine 
qualities  to  be  able  to  keep  away  from  her.  It  's  the  ordin- 
ary case  of  love  versus  duty." 

"  Is  he  well  off?     Could  he  afford  to  marry  Daphne  ? " 

"  Oh,  his  father  's  very  rich  :  he  has  plenty  of  money;  a 
Canadian  millionaire,  they  say.  That  makes  it  all  the  like- 
lier that  .some  undesirable  young  woman  somewhere  may 
have  managed  to  get  hold  of  him.  Just  the  sort  of  romantic, 
impressionable  hobbledehoy  such  women  angle  for," 

I  drummed  my  fingers  on  the  table.  Presently  Hilda 
spoke  again.  "  Why  don't  you  try  to  get  to  know  him,  and 
find  out  precisely  what  's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  kno'd'  what 's  the  matter — now  you  've  told  me,"  I  an- 
swered. "It  's  as  clear  as  day.  Daphne  is  very  much 
smitten  with  him,  too.  I  'm  sorry  for  Daphne  !  Well,  I  'II 
take  your  advice  ;  I  '11  try  to  have  some  talk  with  him." 

"  Do,  please  ;  I  feel  sure  I  have  hit  upon  it.  He  has  got 
himself  engaged  in  a  hurry  to  some  girl  he  does  n't  really 
care  about,  and  he  is  far  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  break 
it  off,  though  he  's  in  love  quite  another  way  with  Daphne." 

Just  at  that  moment  the  door  opened  and  my  aunt  entered. 

"  Why,  where  's  Daphne  ?  "  she  cried,  looking  about  her 
and  arranging  her  black  lace  shawl. 

"  She  has  just  run  out  into  Westbourne  Grove  to  get  some 
gloves  and  a  flower  for  XhQ  fete  this  evening,"  Hilda  an- 
swered. Then  she  added,  significantly,  "  Mr.  Holsworthy 
has  gone  with  her." 


m 


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38 


Hilda  Wade 


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'1.11 


•'  What  ?    That  boy  's  been  here  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Lndy  Tepping.     He  called  to  see  Daphne." 

My  aun^  turned  to  me  with  an  aggrieved  tone.  It  is  a 
peculiarity  of  my  aunt's  —  I  have  met  it  elsewhere  —  that  if 
she  is  angry  with  Jones,  and  Jones  is  not  present,  she  as- 
sumes a  tone  of  injured  asperity  on  his  account  towards 
Brown  or  Smith,  or  any  other  innocent  person  whom  she 
happens  to  be  addressing.  "  Now,  this  is  really  too  bad, 
Hubert,"  she  burst  out,  as  if  /  were  the  culprit.  "  Dis- 
graceful !  Abominable  !  I  'm  sure  I  can't  make  out  what 
the  young  fellow  means  by  it.  Here  he  comes  dangling  after 
Daphne  every  day  and  all  day  long — and  never  once  says 
whether  he  means  anything  by  it  or  not.  In  niy  young 
days,  such  conduct  as  that  would  not  have  been  considered 
respectable." 

I  nodded  and  beamed  benignly. 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  answer  me  ? "  my  aunt  went  on, 
warming  up.  "  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  think  his 
behaviour  respectful  to  a  nice  girl  in  Daphne's  position  ?  " 

"  My  dear  aunt,"  I  answered,  **  you  confound  the  per- 
sons. I  am  not  Mr.  Holsworthy.  I  decline  responsibility 
for  him.  I  meet  him  here,  in  your  house,  for  the  first  time 
this  morning." 

' '  Then  that  shows  how  often  you  come  to  see  your  rela- 
tions, Hubert!  "  my  aunt  burst  out,  obliquely.  "The  man  's 
been  here,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  every  day  this  six 
weeks. ' ' 

"  Really,  Aunt  Fanny,"  I  said;  "  you  must  recollect  that 
a  professional  man ' ' 

"  Oh,  yes.  T/ia^  's  the  way  !  I^ay  it  all  down  to  your 
profession,  do,  Hubert  !    Though  I  know  you  were  at  the 


The  (icntlcman  who  had  Failed 


.>9 


Tliorntons'  on  vSatunlay — saw  it  in  the  papers — the  Morning 
Posl — '  anionj^Mhe  «; nests  were  vSir  Ivlward  and  L;uly  Hnrnes, 
Professor  vSe bast ian.  Dr.  IInl)ert  Cnnil)'jrlecl>;e.'  andsoforlh, 
and  so  forth.  )'oii  think  you  can  concL'al  these  things  ;  i)nt 
you  can't.     I  *;et  to  know  them  !  " 

"  Conceal  tiiem!  My  dearest  aunt  I  Wliy,  I  danced  twice 
with  Daphne." 

"  Daphne  !  Yes,  Daphne.  They  all  run  after  Daphne," 
niv  aunt  exclaimed,  alteriiiir  the  venue  once  more.  "  But 
there  's  no  respect  for  age  left.  /  expect  to  he  neglected. 
However,  that 's  neither  here  nor  there.  The  point  is  this  : 
you  're  the  one  man  now  living  in  the  family.  You  ought 
to  behave  like  a  brother  to  Daphne.  Why  don't  you  board 
this  Holsworthy  person  and  ask  him  his  ititentions?  " 

"  Goodness  gracious!  "  I  cried;  "  most  excellent  of  aunts, 
that  epoch  has  gone  past.  The  late  lamented  Qneen  Ainie 
is  now  dead.  It  's  no  use  asking  the  young  man  of  to-day 
to  explain  his  intentions.  He  will  refer  you  to  the  works 
of  the  vScandinavian  dramatists. " 

My  aunt  was  speechless.  She  could  only  gurgle  out  the 
words  :  "  Well,  I  can  safely  say  that  of  all  the  monstrous 

behaviour "  then  language  failed  her  and  .she  relapsed 

into  silence. 

However,  when  Daphne  and  young  Holsworthy  returned, 
I  had  as  much  talk  with  him  as  I  could,  and  when  he  left 
the  house  I  left  also, 

"  Which  way  are  you  walking  ?  "  I  asked,  as  we  turned 
out  into  the  .street. 

"  Towards  my  rooms  in  the  Temple." 

"Oh!  I  'm  going  back  to  vSt.  Nathaniel's."  I  continued. 
"  If  you  '11  allow  me,  I  '11  walk  part  way  with  you." 


% 


\ 


TT 


40 


Hilda  Wade 


II 


';v 


*'  How  very  kind  of  you  !  " 

We  strode  side  by  side  a  little  distance  in  silence.  Then 
a  thought  seemed  to  strike  the  lnj;ul)rious  young  man. 
"  What  a  charming  girl  your  cousin  is  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
abruptly. 

"  You  seem  to  think  so,"  I  answered,  smiling. 

He  flushed  a  little  ;  the  lantern  jaw  grew  longer.  "  I 
admire  her,  of  course,"  he  answered.  "Who  does  n't? 
She  is  so  extraordinarily  handsome." 

**  Well,  not  exactly  handsome,"  I  replied,  with  more 
critical  and  kin.sman-like  deliberation.  "  Pretty,  if  you  will; 
and  decidedly  pleasing  and  attractive  in  maimer." 

He  looked  me  up  and  down,  as  if  he  found  me  a  person 
singularly  deficient  in  taste  and  appreciation.  '*  Ah,  but 
then,  you  are  her  cousin,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a  compassion- 
ate tone.     "  That  makes  a  difference." 

"  I  quite  see  all  Daphne's  strong  points,"  I  answered,  still 
smiling,  for  I  could  perceive  he  was  very  far  gone.  "  She  is 
good-looking,  and  she  is  clever." 

"  Clever  !  "  he  echoed.  "  Profound  !  She  has  a  most 
unusual  intellect.     She  stands  alone." 

"  Like  her  mother's  silk  dresses,"  I  murmured,  half  under 
my  breath. 

He  took  no  notice  of  my  flippant  remark,  but  went  on  with 
his  rhapsody.  "  Such  depth;  such  penetration!  And  then, 
how  sympathetic!  Why,  even  to  a  mere  casual  acquaintance 
like  myself,  she  is  so  kind,  so  discerning  !  " 

"  Are  you  such  a  casual  acquaintance  ?  "  I  inquired,  with 
a  smile.  (It  might  have  shocked  Aunt  Fanny  to  hear  me  ; 
but  //tai  is  the  way  we  ask  a  young  man  his  intentions  nowa- 
days.) 


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1 2 


Hilda  Wade 


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He  stopped  short  and  hesitated.  "  Oh,  cjiiite  casual,"  he 
repHed,  almost  staninieriiig.  "  Most  casual,  I  assure  you. 
.  .  .  I  have  never  ventured  to  do  ni\  sell  the  honour  of 
supposing  that  .  .  .  that  Miss  Tepping  could  possibly 
care  for  me." 

"  There  is  such  a  thing  as  being  too  modest  and  unassum- 
ing," I  answered.  "  It  sometimes  leads  to  un'irtentional 
cruelty." 

"  No,  do  you  think  so?"  he  cried,'  his  face  falling  all  at 
once.  "  1  should  blame  myself  bilierly  if  t\ai  were  .so.  Dr. 
Cumberledge,  you  are  her  cousin.  Do  you  gather  that  I 
have  acted  in  sL'ch  a  way  as  to— to  lead  Miss  Tepping  to 
suppose  I  felt  any  affection  for  her  ?  " 

I  laughed  in  his  face.  **  My  dear  boy,"  I  answered,  lay- 
ing one  hand  ou  his  shoulder,  "  may  I  say  the  plain  truth  ? 
A  blind  bat  could  see  you  are  madly  in  love  with  her." 

His  mouth  twitched.  "That  's  very  serious!"  he  an- 
swered, gravely  ;  "  very  serious." 

"  It  is,"  I  responded,  with  my  best  paternal  manner,  gaz- 
ing blankly  in  front  of  me. 

He  stopped  short  again.  "  Look  here,"  he  said,  facing 
me.  **  Are  you  busy  ?  No  ?  Then  come  back  with  me  to 
my  rooms;  and  —  I  '11  make  a  clean  breast  of  it." 

"  By  all  means,"  I  assented.  "  When  one  is  young — and 
foolish  —  I  have  often  noticed,  as  a  medical  man,  that  a 
drachm  of  clean  breast  is  a  magnificent  prescription." 

He  walked  back  by  my  side,  talking  all  the  way  of 
Daphne's  many  adorable  qualities.  He  exhausted  the 
dictionary  for  laudatory  adjectives.  By  the  time  I  reached 
his  door  it  was  not  his  fault  if  I  had  not  learned  that  the 
angelic  hierarchy  were  not  in  the  running  with  my  pretty 


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44 


Hilda  Wade 


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cousin  for  Rf'^ces  atid  virtues.  I  felt  that  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charily  ouglit  to  resign  at  once  in  favour  of  Miss  Daphne 
Tepping,  promoted. 

He  took  me  into  his  comfortably  furnished  rooms — the 
luxurious  rooms  of  a  rich  young  bachelor,  with  taste  as  well 
as  money  —  and  offered  me  a  partaga.  Now,  I  have  long 
observed,  in  the  course  of  my  practice,  that  a  choice  cigar 
assists  a  man  in  taking  a  philosophic  outlook  on  the  question 
under  discussion  ;  so  I  accepted  the  partaga.  He  sat  down 
opposite  me  and  pointed  to  a  photograph  in  the  centre  of  his 
mantlepiece.  "  I  am  engaged  to  that  lady,"  he  put  in, 
shortly. 

"  So  I  anticipated, "  I  answered,  lighting  up. 

He  started  and  looked  surprised.  "  Why,  what  made  you 
gue.ss  it  ?  "  he  inquired. 

I  smiled  the  calm  smile  of  superior  age — I  was  some  eight 
years  or  so  his  senior.  "  My  dear  fellow,"  I  murmured, 
'  what  else  could  prevent  you  from  proposing  to  Daphne  — 
when  you  are  so  undeniably  in  love  with  her  ?  " 

"  A  great  deal,"  he  answered.  "  For  example,  the  sense 
of  my  own  utter  unworthiness." 

"  One's  own  unworthiness,"  I  replied,  "  though  doubtless 
real  —  p'f,  p'f — is  a  barrier  that  most  of  us  can  readily  get 
over  when  our  admiration  for  a  particular  lady  waxes  strong 
enough.  So  i/i/s  is  the  prior  attachment  !  "  I  took  the  por- 
trait down  and  scanned  it. 

'*  Unfortunately,  yes.     What  do  you  think  of  her?  " 

I  scrutinised  the  features.  "  Seems  a  nice  enough  little 
thing,"  I  answered.  It  was  an  innocent  face,  I  admit;  very 
frank  and  girlish. 

He  leaned  forward  eagerly.     "  That  's  just  it.     A  nice 


I'hc  ricntlcnian  wlu)  had  1 'ailed 


45 


enouKli  little  thiiiK^!     Xolliiii^  in  the  world  to  he  said  a^;ainst 

her.     Wliile  Daphne  —  Miss   Tcppitig,   I  mean "      liis 

silence  was  ecstatic. 

I  examined  the  photograph  still  more  closely.  It  dis- 
played a  lady  of  twenty  or  thereal)onts,  with  a  weak  face, 
small,  vacant  features,  a  feel)le  chin,  a  good-humoured, 
simple  mouth,  and  a  wealth  of  golden  hair  that  .seemed  to 
strike  a  keynote. 

"  In  the  theatrical  profession?"  I  inquired  at  last,  look- 
ing up. 

He  hesitated.     "  Well,  not  exnctly,"  he  answered. 

I  pursed  my  lips  and  blew  a  ring.  "  Music-hall  stage  i*  " 
I  went  on,  dubiou.sly. 

He  nodded.  "  But  a  girl  is  not  necessarily  any  the  less  a 
lady  because  she  .sings  at  a  nuisic-hall,"  he  added,  with 
warmth,  displaying  an  evident  desire  to  be  ju.st  to  his  be- 
trothed, however  much  he  admired  Daphne. 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  admitted.  "  A  lady  is  a  lady  ;  no 
occupation  can  in  itself  unladify  her.  .  .  .  Hut  on  the 
music-hall  .stage,  the  odds,  one  must  admit,  are  on  the  whole 
against  her." 

'*  Now,  there  you  .show  prejudice  !  " 

"  One  may  be  quite  unprejudiced,"  I  answered,  "  and  yt^ 
allow  that  connection  with  the  music-halls  does  not,  as  such, 
afford  clear  proof  that  a  girl  is  a  compound  of  all  the 
virtues." 

"  I  think  .she  's  a  good  girl,"  he  retorted,  .slowly. 

"  Then  why  do  you  want  to  throw  her  over  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  I  don't.  That  's  just  it.  On  the  contrary,  I  mean  to 
keep  my  word  and  marry  her." 

In  order  to  keep  your  word  ?  "  I  suggested. 


!:' 


(I 


II 


w 


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46 


Hilda  Wa.lo 


f. 
I' 


Tie  nocUled.     *'  Precisely.     It  is  a  point  of  honour." 

•' That 's  a  poor  >;roun(l  of  marriage,"  I  wetit  on.  "  Mind, 
I  don't  want  for  a  moment  to  intluence  you,  as  Diphne's 
cousin.  I  want  to  K^'t  at  the  truth  of  the  situation.  I  don't 
even  know  what  Daphne  tjjinks  of  you.  Ihit  you  premised 
me  a  clean  breast.     He  a  man  and  hire  it.  " 

He  bared  it  instantly.  "  I  thought  I  was  in  love  with  this 
girl,  you  see,"  he  went  on,  "  till  I  .saw  Miss  Teppiny;." 

"  That  makes  a  difTerence,"  I  admitted. 

•'  And  I  could  n't  bear  to  break  her  heart." 

"  Heaven  forl)id!  "  I  cried.  "  It  is  the  one  unpardonable 
sin.  Heller  anylhinj;  than  that."  Then  I  grew  practical. 
"  Father's  consent  ?" 

*'  J/i'  father's?  /s  it  likely?  He  expects  me  to  marry 
into  some  dislin^ui.shed  Ivn^lish  family." 

I  hummed  a  moment.  "  Well,  out  with  it!  "  I  exclaimed, 
pointing!:  my  cij^^ar  at  him. 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  told  me  the  whole  story. 
A  pretty  girl  ;  golden  hair  ;  introduced  to  her  by  a  friend  ; 
nice,  simple  little  thing  ;  mind  and  heart  above  the  irregular 
stage  on  to  which  slie  had  been  driven  by  poverty  alone  ; 
father  dead  ;  mother  in  reduced  circumstances.  "  To  keep 
the  home  together,  poor  vSissie  decided " 

"  Precisely  so,"  I  murmured,  knocking  off  my  a.sh.  "  The 
usual  self-sacrifice  !     Case  quite  normal  !      Everything  at 

*'  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  doubt  it  ?  "  he  cried,  flush- 
ing up,  and  evidently  regarding  me  as  a  hopeless  cynic.  "  I 
do  assure  you,  Dr.  Cumberledge,  the  poor  child  —  though 
miles,  of  course,  below  Miss  Tepping's  level — is  as  innocent, 
and  as  good- 


>» 


^ 


The  (irfitlcm.iii  who  had  l-aikd 


47 


"  Asa  llovvcr  in  May.  Oli,  yes;  I  iloij't  cIoul»t  it.  How 
(lid  yoti  come  to  propose  to  her,  though  ?  " 

He  reddened  a  little.  "  Well,  it  was  almost  accidental," 
he  «aid,  sheepishly.  "  I  Cidkd  there  one  evening;,  and  her 
mother  had  a  headache  and  went  n|)  to  hed.  And  when  we 
two  were  left  alone,  Sissie  talked  a  great  deal  ahoiit  her 
futnre  and  how  hard  her  life  was.  And  after  a  while  .she 
broke  down  and  hej;an  to  cry.     And  then " 

I  cnt  him  short  with  a  wave  of  my  hand.  "  You  need  .say 
no  more,"  I  put  in,  with  a  symiKithetic  face.  "  We  have  all 
been  LJiere." 

We  paused  a  moment,  while  I  puffid  .smoke  at  tlie  photo- 
jj^raph  again.  "  Well,"  I  said  at  last,  "  her  face  looks  tome 
really  simple  and  nice.  It  is  a  good  face.  Do  you  .see  her 
often?" 

"  Oh,  no  ;  she   s  on  tour." 

"In  the  provinces  ?  " 
M'yes  ;  just  at  pre.sent,  at  Scarborough." 
But  she  writes  to  you  ?  " 

"  Kvery  day." 

"  Would  you  think  it  an  unpardonable  impertinence  if  I 
made  bolrl  to  ask  whether  it  would  be  po.ssil)le  for  you  to 
show  me  a  .specimen  of  her  letters  ?  " 

He  utdocked  a  drawer  and  took  out  three  or  four.  Then 
he  read  one  through,  carefully.  "  I  don't  think,"  he  said, 
in  a  deliberative  voice,  "  it  woidd  be  a  serious  breach  of  con- 
fidence in  me  to  let  you  look  through  this  one.  There  's 
really  nothing  in  it.  you  know — just  the  ordinary  average 
every-day  love-letter." 

I  glanced  through  the  little  note.  He  was  right.  The 
conventional   hearts   and   darts  epistle.      It  sounded   nice 


« t 


'> 


II' 


4S 


IliUla  Wade 


ii, 


»'  it 


\: 


t'ij()U>;li  ;  "  I/)n>;iii^;  to  mcc  you  a^aiti  ;  so  loticly  iti  this  place  ; 
your  dear  Hwect  letter  ;  looking  forward  to  the  time  ;  your 
cver-de voted  Sissie." 

"That  seems  straight,  "  I  answered.  "  However,  I  am 
not  ([uite  sure.  Will  you  allow  me  to  take  it  away,  with  the 
photograph  ?  I  know  I  am  asking  nuich.  I  want  to  show 
it  to  a  lady  in  whose  tact  and  discrimination  I  have  the 
greatest  confidence." 

"  What,  Daphne?" 

I  smiled.  "  No,  not  Daphne,"  I  answered,  "  Our  friend. 
Miss  Wade.     She  has  extraordinary  insight." 

"  I  could  tru.st  anything  to  Miss  Wade.  She  is  true  as 
Hteel." 

"  You  are  right,"  I  answered.  "That  shows  that  you. 
too,  are  a  judge  of  character." 

He  hesitated.  "  I  feel  a  l)rute,"  he  cried,  "  to  go  on  writ- 
ing every  day  to»Sissie  Montague--and  yet  calling  every  day 
to  see  Miss  Tepping.     Hut  still  —  I  do  it." 

I  grasped  his  hand.  "  My  dear  fellow,"  I  .said,  "  nearly 
ninety  per  cent,  of  men,  after  all  —  are  human  !  " 

I  took  both  letter  and  ^  .lotograph  back  with  me  to  Natluui- 
iel'.s.  Wlien  I  had  gone  my  rounds  that  night,  I  carrietl 
them  into  Hilda  Wade's  room  and  told  her  the  story.  Her 
face  grew  grave.  "  We  must  be  just,"  she  said  at  last. 
"  Daphne  is  deeply  in  love  with  him  ;  but  even  for  Daphne's 
sake,  we  must  not  take  anything  for  granted  again.st  the 
other  lady." 

I  produced  the  photograph.  "  What  do  you  make  of 
that  ?  "  I  a.sked.  "  /  think  it  an  honest  face,  myself,  I  may 
tell  you." 

She  scrutinised   it   long   and  closely  with  a  magnifier. 


y 

«; 


u 

o 

w 

s 


^4 

I 


Hi 


if 


1 


;o 


Hilda  Wacic 


.1 


I 


Then  she  put  her  head  on  one  side  and  mused  very  deliber- 
ately. "  Madeline  Shaw  gave  me  her  pliotograph  the  other 
day,  and  said  to  me,  as  she  gave  it,  '  I  do  so  like  these 
modern  portraits  ;  they  show  one  7t'/i(f/  miiilit  have  been.  '  " 

"  You  mean  they  are  so  nuicli  touched  up  !  " 

"  Exactly.  That,  as  it  stands,  is  a  sweet,  innocent  face — 
an  honest  gill's  face  —  almo.st  babyish  in  its  transparency  ; 
but  .  .  .  the  innocence  has  all  been  put  into  it  by  the 
photographer." 

"  You  think  so?" 

"  I  know  it.  Look  here  at  those  lines  just  visible  on  the 
cheek.  They  disappear,  nowhere,  at  impo.ssible  angles. 
And  the  corners  of  that  mouth.  They  could  n't  go  so,  with 
that  nose  and  those  puckers.  The  thing  is  not  real.  It  has 
been  atrociously  edited.  Part  is  nature's  ;  part,  the  photo- 
grapher's ;  part,  even  possibly  paint  and  powder." 

"  But  the  underlying  face  ?  " 

"  Is  a  minx's." 

I  handed  her  the  letter.  "  This  next  ?  "  I  asked,  fixing 
my  eyes  on  her  as  .she  looked. 

She  read  it  through.  For  a  minute  or  two  she  examined 
it.  "  The  letter  is  right  enough,"  she  answered,  after  a 
second  reading,  "  though  its  guileless  simplicity  is,  perhaps, 
under  the  circumstances,  just  a  leetle  overdone  ;  but  the 
handwriting  —  the  handwriting  is  duplicity  it.self :  a  cun- 
ning, serpentine  hand,  no  openness  or  honesty  in  it.  De- 
pend upon  it,  that  girl  is  playing  a  double  game." 

"  You  believe,  then,  there  is  character  in  handwriting  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly  ;  when  we  know  the  character,  we  can  see 
it  in  the  writing.  The  difficulty  is,  to  see  it  and  read  it 
before  we  know  it  ;  and  I  have  practised  a  little  at  that. 


The  Gentleman  who  had  Failed 


5' 


There  is  character  in  all  we  do,  of  course  —  our  walk,  our 
cougl.,  the  very  wave  of  our  hatuls  ;  the  only  secret  is,  not 
all  of  us  have  always  skill  to  see  it.  Here,  however,  [  feel 
I)retty  sure.  The  ci'irls  of  the  j;'s  niul  the  tails  of  the  y's  — 
how  full  they  are  of  wile,  of  low,  underhaiul  trickery  !  " 

I  looked  at  them  as  she  pointed.  "  That  is  true  !  "  I  ex- 
claimed. "  I  see  it  when  you  show  it.  Lines  nv,""U  for 
effect.     No  straighlness  or  directness  in  them  !  " 

Hilda  reflected  a  moment.  "  Poor  Daphne  !"  -he  luir- 
mured.  "  I  would  do  anything;  to  help  her.  .  .  .  I  '11 
tell  what  might  he  a  good  plan  "  Her  face  hri'h.lened. 
"  My  holida}'  comes  next  week.  I  II  run  down  to  vScar- 
borough — it 's  as  nice  a  place  tor  a  holiday  as  any — and  I  '11 
ob.serve  this  young  lady.  It  can  do  no  harm — and  gc^ou  may 
come  of  it." 

"  How  kind  of  you  !  "  I  cried.  "  But  you  are  always  all 
kindness." 

Hilda  went  to  Scarborough,  and  came  back  again  for  a 
week  before  going  on  to  Bruges,  where  she  proposed  to  spend 
the  greater  part  of  her  holidays.  She  stopped  a  night  or  two 
in  town  to  report  progress,  and,  finding  another  nur.se  ill, 
promised  to  fill  her  place  till  a  substitute  was  forthcomiiig. 
"  Well,  Dr.  Cundjerledge,"  she  said,  when  slie  saw  me 
alone,  "  I  was  right  !  I  have  found  out  a  fact  or  two  about 
Daphne's  rival  !  " 

"  You  have  seen  her  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Seen  her  ?  I  have  stopped  for  a  week  in  the  same 
house.  A  very  nice  IcKlgiiig-house  on  the  Spa  front,  too. 
The  girl  's  well  enoug'h  off.  The  poverty  plea  fails.  vSlie 
goes  about  in  good  rooms  and  carries  a  mother  with  her." 

"That  's  well,"  I  answered.     "  That  looks  all  right." 


I 


fi! 


w 


52 


Hilda  Wade 


If 


i 


.r 


r  if 


"  Oh,  yes,  she  's  quite  presenlriljlc  :  has  the  manners  of  a 
lady  —  whenever  she  chooses.  Hut  the  cliief  point 's  this  : 
she  laid  her  letters  every  chiy  oti  tlie  table  in  the  passij^e  out- 
side her  door  for  post  —  hiid  tlieni  all  iii  a  row,  so  tha'.  wlien 
one  claimed  one's  own  one  could  n't  help  seeing  them.  ' 

"  Well,  that  was  open  and  ahovehoard,"  I  continued,  he- 
p^inning  to  fear  we  had  hastily  niisjudj^ed  Miss  Sissie  Mon- 
tague. 

"  Very  open  — too  nuieh  so,  in  fact  ;  for  I  was  obliged  to 
note  the  fact  that  she  wrote  two  letters  regularly  every  day 
of  her  life — '  to  my  two  mashes,'  she  explained  one  afternoon 
to  a  young  man  who  was  with  her  as  she  laid  them  on  the 
table.  One  of  theni  was  always  addressed  to  Cecil  ^lols- 
worthy,  Esq." 

"  And  the  other  ?  " 

"  Wasn't." 

**  Did  you  note  th-.-  name  ?  "  I  asked,  interested. 

"  Yes  ;  here  it  is."     vShe  handed  me  a  .slip  of  paper. 

I  read  it  :  "  Reginald  Nettlecraft,  Esq.,  427,  vStaples  Inn, 
London." 

"  What,  Reggie  Nettlecraft  !  "  I  cried,  amu.sed.  "  Why, 
he  was  a  v^ery  little  boy  at  Charterhou.se  when  I  was  a  big 
one  ;  he  afterwards  went  to  Oxford,  and  got  .sent  down  from 
Christ  Church  for  the  part  he  took  in  burning  a  Greek  bust 
in  Tom  Quad  —  an  antique  Greek  bust  —  after  a  bump 
supper." 

"Just  the  sort  of  man  I  should  have  expected,"  Hilda 
answered,  with  a  suppressed  smile.  "  I  have  a  sort  of  ink- 
ling that  Misp  Montague  likes  ///w  best  ;  he  is  nearer  her 
type;  but  she  thinks  Cecil  Jlolsworthy  the  better  match. 
Has  Mr.  Nettlecraft  money  ? ' ' 


The  (icntlcmaii  uho  IkuI  Tailed 


1 3 


"  Not  a  pL'iuiy,  I  should  say.  An  allowance  from  his 
father,  perhaps,  who  is  a  Lincolnshire  parson  ;  but  other- 
wise, nothini!^." 

*'  Then,  in  my  opinion,  the  young  lady  is  playing  for  Mr. 


•*'Tr»   U\    TWO    MASHKS,     SHK   F.XI'l.AINF.n. 

Holsworthy's  money  ;  failing  which,  she  will  decline  upon 
Mr.  Nettlecraffsheart." 

We  talked  it  all  over.  In  the  end  I  said  abruptly:  "  Nurse 
Wade,  you  have  aeen  Miss  Montague,  or  whatever  she  calls 
herself.  I  have  not.  I  won't  condemn  her  unheard.  I 
have  half  a  mind  to  run  down  one  day  next  week  to  Scar- 
borouyrh  and  have  a  look  at  her. ' ' 


li 


1 1 

r1 


T 


54 


Hilda  W.ulc 


I 


1 
^1 


fl 


Ij 

4 


"  Do.  That  will  sufTice.  Voii  can  jiidpe  then  for  your- 
self whether  or  not  I  am  mistaken." 

I  went  ;  and  what  is  more,  I  heard  Miss  Sissie  sin^  at  her 
hall  —  a  pretty  dt)mestic  .sonij,  most  childish  and  charming. 
vShe  impresse  i  nut  not  nnfavonrably,  in  spile  of  what  Hilda 
said.  Her  peach -hlos.som  cheek  might  have  been  art,  but 
looked  like  nature.  vShe  h:id  an  open  face,  a  baby  .smile  ; 
and  tht-re  was  a  frank  girlishncss  about  her  dress  and  man- 
ner that  took  my  fancy.  "  After  all,"  I  thought  to  myself, 
"  even  Hilda  Wade  is  falliide." 

So  that  evening,  when  her  "  turn  "  was  over,  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  go  round  and  call  upon  her.  I  had  told  Cecil 
Hol.sworthy  my  intentions  beforehand,  and  it  rather  .shocked 
him.  He  was  loo  much  of  a  gentleman  to  wi.sh  to  spy  upon 
the  girl  he  had  promised  to  marry.  However,  in  my  ca.se, 
there  need  be  no  such  scruples.  I  found  the  house  and 
asked  for  Miss  M  iitague.  As  I  mounted  the  stairs  to  the 
drawing-room  floir.  I  heard  a  sound  of  voices  —  the  murmur 
of  laughtLT  ;  i'  loiic  guffaws,  suppressed  giggles,  the  mascu- 
line and  fcminirje  varieties  of  tomfoolery. 

"  yo/f  ' d  make  a  splendid  woman  of  i)usiness,  r^?<  would!  " 
a  young  mm  was  saying.  I  gathered  from  his  drawl  that 
he  belonged  to  tliat  sub-species  of  the  human  race  which  is 
knov»'n  as  the  Chappie. 

"  Would  n't  I  just""  a  girl's  voice  answered,  tittering. 
I  recognised  it  as  vSissie's.  "  You  ought  to  see  me  at  it  ! 
Why  my  brother  set  up  a  place  ouc^  for  mending  bicycles  ; 
and  I  u.sed  to  stand  about  at  the  door,  as  if  I  had  just  re- 
turned from  a  ride  ;  and  when  fellows  came  in,  with  a  nut 
loose  or  something,  I  'd  begin  talking  with  them  while 
Bertie  tightened  it.     Then,  when  they  were  n't  looking,  I  'd 


The  (iciitlcinan  uiio  h.id  Tailed 


55 


dab  the  business  uiul  of  a  daniinj^-needle,  so,  just  plump  into 
tlieir  tires  ;  and  of  cr)urse,  as  soon  ;is  tiiey  went  off.  tliey 
were  1>  ick  n^aiu  in  a  minute  to  get  a  puncture  mended  !  I 
call  that  business." 

A  roar  of  laugh- 
ter greeted  the  re- 
cital of  this  brilliant 
incident  \\\  a  com- 
mercial career.  As 
it  subsided,  I  en- 
tered. There  were 
two  men  in  the 
room,  besides  Miss 
Montague  and  her 
mother,  and  a 
second  young  lady. 

"  Excuse  this 
late  call,"  I  said, 
quietly,  b  owing. 
"  But  I  have  only 
one  night  in  Scar- 
bo  r  o  ugh,  Miss 
Montague,  and  I 
wanted  to  see  you. 
I  'm  a  friend  of 
Mr.  Holsworthy's. 
I  told  him  I  'd  look  you  up,  and  this  is  my  sole  opportunity." 

I  felt  rather  thati  saw  that  Miss  Montague  darted  a  cjuick 
glance  of  hidden  meaning  at  her  friends  the  chappies  ;  their 
faces,  in  response,  ceased  to  snigger  and  grew  instantly 
sober. 


"N!iisr    ClIII.DISll    AM)    CIlAKMlVi;." 


il 


\ 


\V\ 


ill 


.( 


i 
i 


Jt     ::; 


1 

t    ;i^ 

1 

I  J 
•ill 

•r  i 

i 

'It 

5* 


Hilda  Wade 


She  took  my  cnrd  ;  tlieii,  in  hv.r  alternative  manner  as  the 
perfect  lady,  she  presented  me  to  her  mother.  '*  Dr.  Cumher- 
ledj^e,  mamm.i,"  she  said,  in  a  faintly  warning  voice.  "  A 
friend  of  Mr.  Ilolsvvorthy's." 

The  ol:l  lady  half  rose.  "  I^et  me  see,"  she  .said,  staring 
at  me.  *' W/i/c/i  is  Mr.  Holsworthy,  Siss  ? — is  it  Cecil  or 
Reggie  ?  " 

One  of  the  chappies  bnrst  into  a  fatnons  langh  once  more 
at  this  remark.  "  Now,  your  're  giving  away  the  whole 
show,  Mrs.  Montague  !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  a  chuckle.  A 
look  from  Miss  Sissie  innnediately  checked  him. 

I  am  bound  to  admit,  however,  that  after  the.se  untoward 
incidents  of  the  first  minute.  Miss  Montague  and  her  friends 
behaved  throughout  with  di.stinguished  propriety.  Her 
maimers  were  perfect — I  may  even  say  demure.  She  asked 
about  "  Cecil  "  with  charming  na'k'ctC'.  Slie  was  frank  and 
girlish.  Lots  of  innocent  fun  in  her,  no  doubt — .she  sang  us 
a  comic  song  in  excellent  taste,  which  is  a  severe  test  —  but 
not  a  suspicion  of  double-dealing.  If  I  had  not  overheard 
those  few  words  as  I  came  up  the  .stairs,  I  think  I  .should 
have  gone  away  believing  the  poor  girl  an  injured  cliild  of 
nature. 

As  it  was,  I  went  back  to  London  the  very  next  day,  de- 
termined to  renew  my  slight  acquaintance  with  Reggie 
Nettlecraft. 

Fortunately,  I  had  a  good  excuse  for  going  to  visit  him. 
I  had  been  asked  to  collect  among  old  Carthusians  for  one 
of  those  endless  "  testimonials"  which  pursue  one  through 
life,  and  are,  perhaps,  the  worst  Nemesis  which  follows  the 
crime  of  having  wasted  one's  youth  at  a  public  .school  :  a 
testimonial  for  a  retiring  master,  or  professional  cricketer, 


I    USKI)    TO    STAND    AHOUT   Al    TlIK    IXJOR. 


ti 


r 


0 

r, 

-J 


57 


' 


5« 


Hilda  Wade 


•  i 


or  washerwoman,  or  sotnclhin^'  ;  and  in  llic  eoitrse  or  my 
clutics  as  collector  it  was  (iiiitc  natural  that  I  sItouKi  call 
upon  all  my  fellow-victims.  So  I  went  to  his  rooms  in 
Staples  Inn  and  reintroduced  myseli. 

Re}^j;ie  Nettlecraft  had  jjrown  up  into  an  unwliolesome, 
spotty,  indeterminate  younj;  man,  v, itii  a  speckled  necktie, 
and  cuffs  of  which  he  was  inordinately  proud,  and  which  he 
insisted  on  "  flashing"  every  second  minute.  He  was  also 
evidently  self-.satisfied  ;  which  was  odd,  for  I  have  seldom 
seen  anyone  who  afforded  less  cause  for  rational  satisfaction. 
"  Hullo,"  he  said,  when  I  tohl  him  my  name.  "  vSo  it  's 
you,  is  it,  Cumherled^e  ?  "  He  f;lanced  at  my  card.  "  St. 
Nathaniel's  Hospital  !  What  rot  !  Why,  blow  me  tight  if 
you  have  n't  turned  sawbones  !  " 

"  That  is  my  profession,"  I  answered,  unashamed.  "And 
you?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  have  any  luck,  you  know,  old  man.  They 
turned  me  out  of  Oxford  because  I  had  too  much  sense  of 
humour  for  the  authorities  there — beastly  set  of  old  foge>-:  ! 
Objected  to  my  '  chucking  '  oyster  shells  at  the  tutors'  win- 
dows—  good  old  Kngli.sh  custom,  fast  becoming  obsolete. 
Then  I  crammed  for  the  Army.  But,  bless  your  heart,  a 
iTcntlcman  has  no  chance  for  the  Army  nowadays;  a  pack  of 
blooming  cads,  with  what  they  call  *  intellect,'  read  up  for 
the  exams.,  and  don't  give  ns  a  look-in;  I  call  it  sheer  piffle. 
Then  the  Guv'nor  set  me  on  electrical  engineering — electrical 
engineering  's  played  out.  I  put  no  stock  in  it  ;  besides,  it 's 
such  beastly  fag  ;  and  then,  you  get  your  hands  dirty.  So 
now  I  'm  reading  for  the  Bar;  and  if  only  my  coach  can  put 
me  up  to  tips  enough  to  dodge  the  examiners,  I  expect  to 
be  called  some  time  next  summer." 


Tlic  ricntlcinan  who  had  I 'ailed 


59 


"  And  wlicij  you  have  tailcil  for  cverythiiiK  ?"  I  iiuiiiircd, 
just  to  test  his  SLMisj  of  hutuofir. 

lie  swaUowecl  it  Hke  a  roach.  "  Oh.  when  I  've  failed 
for  fvcrylhiiii;.  I  sli.ill  slick  up  to  the  (luv'nor.  Ilan^  it 
all,  w  xtnt/t)H(Ui  can't  he  expecled  to  earn  his  own  livelihood. 
Ivii^laiul  's  K"''>K  ^*'  ^l**i  do^s,  that  's  where  it  is  ;  no  siiu>; 
little  sinecufL's  left  for  ch  ips  like  you  and  me  ;  all  this  beastly 
competition.  And  no  respect  for  the  feelings  of  gentlemen, 
either!  Why,  would  you  believe  it,  Cuml)er^round  —  we 
used  to  call  you  Cmnberground  at  Charterhouse,  I  remem- 
ber, or  was  it  Mv;  Tree  ?  —  I  h  ij)penL(l  to  t;et  a  bit  lively  in 
the  Ilaymarket  last  week,  nftera  rattlinj;  jj^ood  supper,  and 
the  chap  at  the  police  court  — ohl  cove  with  a  .s<|uint  —  posi- 
tively propo.sed  to  send  me  to  prison,  li'ilhont  the  of^tion  of  a 
Jiiir  !  —  I  Ml  trouble  you  for  that  —  send  nw  to  prison  just  — 
for  knocking  down  a  conunon  brute  of  a  bobby.  There  's  no 
mi.stake  about  it;  Kngland  's  not  a  country  now  for  a  gentle- 
man to  live  in." 

"  Then  why  not  mark  your  .sjnse  of  the  fact  by  le-^-ving 
it  ?  "  I  inquired,  with  a  smile. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  What  ?  Kmigrate  ?  No,  thank 
you  !  I  'm  not  taking  any.  None  of  your  colonies  for  m(\ 
if  sow  please.  I  shnll  stick  to  the  old  ship.  I  'm  too  much 
attached  to  the  Km  pi  re." 

"  And  yet  imperialists,"  I  said,  "  genernlly  gush  over  the 
colonies  —  the  Kinpire  on  which  the  suti  never  .sets." 

"  The  Empire  in  Leicester  Squire!  "  he  responded,  gazing 
at  me  with  unspoken  contempt.  "  Have  a  whisky-and-soda, 
old  chap?  What,  no?  'Never  drink  between  meals?' 
Well,  you  do  surprise  me  !  I  supoosc  that  comes  of  being 
a  sawbones,  don't  it  ?  " 


ll 


# 


ill 


im 


60 


Hilda  Wacic 


JP 


(     ■ 

s 


\ 


I 


■  Si 


"  Possibly,"  I  answered.  *'  'e  respect  our  livef«.** 
Then  I  went  on  to  tlie  ostensible  reason  of  my  visit  —  the 
Charterlionse  testimonial.  lie  sla|>|)c«l  his  thi^^hs  meta- 
phorically, l»y  way  o(  sn^j;estin^  the  jleplcted  rotuliiion  of 
his  pockets.  "  Stony  l)r()ke,  Cuml)erletl^'L',''  he  mnnnured  ; 
"  stony  broke  !  Honour  Ijri^ht  I  Tnless  Hluubird  pnlls  off 
the  I'rincc  of  Wales's  Stakes,  1  really  ilon't  know  how  I  'm 
to  pay  the  Henchers. ' ' 

"  It'sqnite  unimportant,"  I  answered.  "  I  was  asked  to 
ask  yon,  and  I  /uizr  asked  yon." 

*'  vSo  I  twi^,  my  dear  fellow.  Sorry  to  have  to  say  fto. 
Hnt  I  '11  tell  yon  what  I  can  do  for  you  ,  I  can  put  yon  upon 
a  .straight  thinj; " 

I  glanced  at  the  mantelpiece.  "  I  see  yon  have  a  photo- 
j;raph  of  Miss  »Sissie  Monl  ije,"  I  broke  in  casually,  taking 
it  down  and  examinin<^  it.  "  U'///i  an  autojjraph,  too. 
'  Reggie,  from  vSissie.'     Vou  are  a  friend  of  hers  ?  " 

"  A  friend  of  hers  ?  I  '11  trouble  you.  vShe  is  a  clinker, 
Slssie  is  !  Yon  should  see  that  j^irl  smoke.  I  give  you  my 
word  of  lionour,  Cumberledge.  she  can  consume  cigarettes 
against  any  fellow  I  know  in  London.  Hang  it  all,  a  girl 
like  that,  you  know  —  well,  one  can't  help  admiring  her  ! 
liver  seen  her  ? ' ' 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  k:iow  her.  I  called  on  her,  in  fact,  night 
before  last,  at  vScarborough." 

He  whistled  a  moment,  then  broke  into  an  iml)ecile  laugh. 
**  My  gum,"  he  cried  ;  "  this  is  a  start,  this  is  !  You  don't 
mean  to  tell  m^ivou  are  the  other  Johtniie." 

"  What  other  Johnnie  ?  "  I  asked,  feeling  we  were  getting 
near  it. 

He  leaned  back  and  laughed  again.     "  Well,  you  know 


V 

I 


6} 


Hilda  Wade 


I    '■ 


that  girl  SIshIc,  hIic  'h  a  clever  one.  she  in,"  he  wnwt  on  nftcr 
a  iiiiiuitc,  HlariiiK;  at  inc.  "  SIk*  '.h  a  regular  cliiikcr  !  (lOt 
two  slriii^jH  lo  hir  bfm'  ;  tliat  's  wlicic  tlic  trtxiMc  conies  in. 
Me  and  ain)liicr  fellow.  Slie  tikes  Me  tor  love  and  the 
other  lellow  tor  money.  Now,  ilon't  yon  come  and  lell  me 
Ihal  i'<»//  are  the  other  fellow. " 

"  I  have  ceilainly  never  aspired  to  the  yonn^  lady's 
hand,"  I  answered,  canlionsly.  "  Hnt  don't  you  know  yonr 
rival's  name,  then  ?  " 

'*  That  '.H  Sissie's  blooming  cl'jverness.  She  's  a  caulker, 
SIssie  is  ;  yon  don't  take  a  rise  ont  of  Sissie  in  a  hurry. 
vShc  knows  that  if  I  knew  who  the  t)ilKr  hloke  was,  I  'd 
l)low  upon  her  little  game  to  him  and  put  him  oil  her.  And 
I  7ivi</(/,  s'  ep  mc  taters  ;  for  I  ni  nuts  on  that  girl.  I  tell 
you,  Ciunherledge,  she  t's  a  clinker  !  " 

•'  You  seem  to  me  admirably  adapted  for  one  another," 
I  answered,  truthfully.  I  had  not  the  slightest  compunction 
in  handing  Reggie  Nettlecraft  over  to  Sissie,  nor  in  handing 
Sissie  over  lo  Reggie  Netth'craft. 

"  Adapted  for  one  another  ?  That  's  just  it.  There,  you 
hit  the  right  nail  plump  on  the  cocoatuit.  Cmnbergroand  ! 
lUit  vSissie  's  an  artfid  one,  she  is.  She  's  playing  for  the 
other  Johnnie.  Ho  's  got  the  dibs,  you  know  ;  and  Si.ssie 
wants  the  dibs  even  more  than  she  wants  yours  truly." 

"  Got  what  ?  "  I  inciuired,  not  ({uite  catching  the 
phrase. 

*' The  dib.s,  old  man;  the  chink;  the  oof ;  the  ready  rhino. 
He  rolls  in  it,  she  says.  I  can't  find  out  the  chap's  name, 
but  I  know  his  Guv' nor  's  something  or  other  in  the  million- 
aire trade  somewhere  across  in  America." 

"  She  writes  to  you,  I  think  ?  " 


The  (anlK'inan  who  h.nl  ['.liUd         63 

"  That  '»  HO  ;  every  hlooiiiiuK  ilay  ;  Imt  liow  ihc  ihiininy 
(lid  you  COMIC  to  know  it  ?  " 

"  She  hiys  letters  u(l<licH.H4'il  to  you  ou  the  hall  tu))le  at  her 
loil>;ii>Kf*  •''  Scarh!)rou^;h." 

'*  The  (lickeuH  .slie  tloes  !  C arclesH  little  I'ckkJ^*"  '  VeH, 
nhe  writeH  to  uie— pages.  She  'h  awfully  K«»e  on  n»e,  renlly. 
She  W  marry  nie  if  it  was  u't  for  the  Johuuic  with  the  dihs. 
She  does  u't  care  for  //////  .•  she  wauls  his  uiouey.  I  le  dresses 
l)adly,  (lou't  you  see  ;  aud,  after  all,  the  clothes  tuake  the 
niati  !  /  '(/  like  to  );et  at  hini.  /  '</  spoil  his  pretty  face  for 
hiiu."     Ami  he  assuuied  a  phiyfully  pugilistic  attitude. 

"You  really  waul  to  get  rid  of  this  other  fellow  i*  "  I 
nsked,  seeiug  luy  chaucc. 

*•  Get  rid  of  hiui  ?  Why,  of  course  !  Chuck  hiui  iuto  the 
river  souie  uice  dark  uight  if  I  cf)ul(l  ouce  get  a  look  at  hitu  !  " 

"  Asa  preliuiiuary  step,  would  you  niiiul  letting  uie  see 
one  of  Miss  Mout  igue's  letters  .'  "  I  iuc|iiired. 

He  ilrew  a  long  hrealh.  "  They  're  a  bit  afTectiouale,  you 
kuow,"  he  nuiruiured,  stroking  his  buardless  chin  in  hesita- 
tion. "  Slie  's  a  hot  'un,  vSissie  is.  She  pitches  it  i>relty 
warm  on  the  affect  ion -stop,  I  can  tell  you.  Mut  if  you  really 
think  you  can  give  the  other  Johnnie  a  cut  on  the  head  with 
her  letters — well,  in  the  interests  of  true  love,  which  never 
tfoi's  run  smooth,  I  don't  mind  letting  you  have  a  scpiint,  as 
my  frieiul,  at  one  of  her  charming  billy-doos." 

He  took  a  bundle  from  a  drawer,  ran  his  eye  over  one  or 
two  wilh  a  maudlin  air,  and  then  selected  a  specimen  not 
wholly  unsuitable  for  publication.  "  T/ierc  's  one  in  the  eye 
for  C,"  he  said,  chuckling.  "  What  would  C.  say  to  that, 
I  wonder  ?  She  always  calls  him  C,  you  know;  it 's. so  jolly 
nou-connnitting.     She  says,  '  I  only  wish  that  beastly  old 


I 


III 


i 


\ 


u 


■I 


64 


Hilda  Wade 


afi' 


I    1 

'     If 


\  i. 


bore  C.  were  at  Halifax  —  which  is  where  he  conies  from  ; 
and  then  I  wonUl  fly  at  once  to  my  own  dear  Reggie  !  Ihit, 
hang  it  all,  Reggie  boy,  what  's  the  good  of  trne  love  if  you 
have  n't  got  the  dibs  ?  I  w/rs7  have  my  comforts.  Love  in 
a  cottage  is  all  very  well  in  its  way  ;  but  who  's  to  pay  for  the 
fizz,  Reggie?'  That  's  her  refinement,  don't  you  see? 
Sissie  's  awfully  refined.  She  was  brought  up  with  the  tastes 
and  habits  of  a  lady." 

'*  Clearly  so,"  I  answered.  "  Hoth  her  literary  .style  and 
her  liking  for  champagne  abundantly  demonstrate  it!  "  His 
acute  sense  of  humour  did  not  enable  him  to  detect  the  irony 
of  my  observation.  I  doubt  if  it  extended  nuich  beyond 
oyster  shells. 

He  handed  me  the  letter.  I  read  it  through  witii  equal 
amusement  and  gratification.  If  Miss  Sissie  had  written  it 
on  purpose  in  order  to  open  Cecil  Holsworthy's  eyes,  she 
could  n't  have  managed  the  matter  better  or  more  effectually. 
It  breathed  ardent  love,  tempered  by  a  determination  to  sell 
her  charms  in  the  best  and  highest  matrimonial  market. 

"  Now,  I  know  this  man,  C,"  I  said  when  I  had  finished. 
"  And  I  want  to  ask  whether  you  will  let  me  show  him  Miss 
Montague's  letter.  It  would  set  him  against  the  girl,  who, 
as  a  matter  c"  fact,  is  wholly  unwor — I  mean  totally  unfitted 
for  him." 

"  Let  you  show  it  to  him?  Like  a  bird  !  Why,  Sissie 
promised  me  herself  that  if  she  could  n't  bring  '  that  solemn 
ass,  C.,'  up  to  the  scratch  by  Christmas,  she  'd  chuck  him 
and  marry  me.  It 's  here,  in  writing."  And  he  handed  me 
another  gem  of  epistolary  literature. 

"  You  have  no  compunctions?  "  I  asked  again,  after  read- 
ing it. 


fi 


The  (icntlcnu'in  who  had  I 'ailed 

"  Not  a  ])1l'Ssl'cI  coiiipuiiclioii  to  my  name.'' 
"  Then  neither  liave  I,"  I  answerefl. 


('S 


I  felt  they  both  deserved  it,     vSissie  was  a  minx,  as  Hilda 
rightls   judged  ;  while  as  for  Xetllecraft  —  well,  if  a  piil)lic 


"i  Don't  mind  i.i  imm;  vor  iiavk  a  s(^iint  at 


ONK    C)I     II  IK    l;ll  I.V-lKtOS. 


school  and  an  Ivuglish  uiiiversily  leave  a  man  a  cad,  a  cad 
he  will  be,  and  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said  about  it. 

I  went  straight  off  with  the  letters  to  Cecil  Ilolsworthy. 
He  read  them  through,  half  incredulously  at  first  ;  he  was 
too  honest-natured  himself  to  believe  in  the  possibility  of 
such  double-dealing— that  one  could  have  innocent  eyes  and 
golden  hair  and  yet  be  a  trickster.     He  read  them  twice  ; 

5 


I 


if 


r 


I  ■" 


\i 


i 


1- . 


66 


Hilda  Wade 


then  he  compared  theni  word  for  word  with  the  siinpk  affec- 
tion and  chiUilike  tone  of  his  own  last  letter  received  from 
the  same  lady.  Her  versatility  of  style  wonld  have  done 
hononr  to  a  j)ractised  literary  craftsman.  At  last  he  handed 
them  back  to  me.  "  Do  yon  think,"  he  said,  "  on  the  evid- 
ence of  these,  I  should  be  doing  wrong  in  breaking  with 
her?' 

"  Wrong  in  breaking  with  her  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  You 
would  \k:  doing  wrong  if  you  did  n't, — wrong  to  yourself; 
wronj  to  your  family;  wrong,  if  I  may  venture  to  .say  so,  to 
Daphne;  wrong  even  in  the  long  run  to  the  girl  herself;  for 
hhe  is  not  fitted  for  you,  and  she  /s  fitted  for  Reggie  Nettle- 
craft.  Now,  do  as  I  bid  you.  Sit  down  at  once  and  write 
her  a  letter  from  my  dictation." 

He  sat  down  and  wrote,  much  relieved  that  I  took,  the 
responsibility  off  his  shoulders. 

"Dear  Miss  Montague,"  I  IjcKaii,  '  the  inclosed  letters  have 
come  into  my  hands  uitlioul  my  seeking  it.  Alter  reading  them,  I 
feel  that  I  have  absolutely  no  ri,i;ht  to  stand  between  you  and  the  man 
of  your  real  choice.  It  would  not  be  khid  or  wise  of  me  to  do  so.  I 
release  you  at  once,  and  consider  myself  released.  You  may  there- 
fore regard  our  engageuuu.  as  irrevocably  cancelled. 

"  I'^aithfuUy  yours, 

"Cecil  Holsvvorthy." 

"  Nothing  more  than  that?"  he  a.sked,  looking  up  and 
biting  his  pen,     "  Not  a  word  of  regret  or  apology  ?  " 

"  Not  a  word,"  I  answered.  "  You  are  really  too 
lenient." 

I  made  him  take  it  out  and  post  it  before  he  coidd  invent 
conscientious  scruples.  Then  he  turned  to  me  irresolutely. 
"  What  shall  I  do  next  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  comical  air  of 
doubt. 


*  I 


The  Gentleman  wlio  liad  I'ailetl 


67 


I  smiled.  "  My  clear  fellow,  that  is  a  matter  for  your  own 
consideration." 

*'  But  —  do  you  think  .she  will  laugh  at  me  ?  " 

'•  Miss  Montague  ?  " 

••  No  !     Daphne." 

"  I  am  not  in  Daphne's  confidence,"  I  answered.  "  I  don't 
know  how  .she  feels.  Hut,  on  the  face  of  it,  I  think  I  can 
venture  to  assure  you  that  at  least  she  won't  laugh  at  you." 

He  grasped  my  hand  hard.  "  Von  don't  mean  to  say 
so  !  "  he  cried.  "  Well,  that  's  really  very  kind  of  her  !  A 
girl  of  Daphne's  high  type  !  And  I,  wlio  feel  myself  .so 
utterly  unworthy  of  her  !  '" 

"  We  are  all  unworthy  of  a  good  woman's  love,"  I  an- 
swered. "  Rut,  thank  Heaven,  the  good  women  don't  seem 
to  realise  it." 

That  evening,  about  ten,  my  new  friend  came  back  in  a 
hurry  to  my  rooms  at  vSt.  Nathaniel's.  Nur.se  Wade  was 
standing  there,  giving  her  report  for  the  night  when  he 
entered.  His  face  looked  some  inches  .shorter  and  broader 
than   usual.     His  eyes  beamed.     His  mouth  was   radiant. 

"  Well,  you  won't  believe  it,  Dr.  Cumberledge,"  he  be- 
gan ;  "  but " 

"  Yes,  I  do  believe  it,"  I  answered.  "  I  know  it.  I  have 
read  it  already." 

"  Read  it  !  "  he  cried.     "  Where  ?  " 

I  waved  my  hand  towards  his  face.  "  In  a  special  edition 
of  the  evening  papers,"  I  answered,  smiling.  "  Daphne  has 
accepted  you  !  " 

He  sank  into  an  easy  chair,  beside  himself  with  rapture. 
"  Yes,  yes  ;  that  angel  !  Thanks  to  you^  she  has  accepted 
me  !  " 


\ 


It 


'   t 


68 


Hilda  Wade 


if 


"  Thanks  to  Miss  Wade,"  I  said,  corrcctiuj;  him.  "  It  is 
really  all  her  doing.  If  she  had  not  .seen  throngh  the  photo- 
graph to  the  face,  and  through  the  face  to  the  woman  and 
the  ba.se  little  heart  of  her,  we  might  never  have  found  her 
out." 

He  turned  to  Hilda  with  eyes  all  gratitude.  "  You  have 
given  me  the  dearest  and  best  girl  on  earth,"  he  cried,  seiz- 
ing both  her  hands. 

"  And  I  have  given  Daphne  a  husi)and  who  will  love  and 
appreciate  her,"  Hilda  an.swered,  flushing. 

"  You  see,"  I  .said,  maliciously  ;  "  I  told  you  they  never 
find  us  out,  Holsworthy  !  " 

As  for  Reggie  Nettlecraft  and  his  wife,  I  .should  like  to  add 
that  they  are  getting  on  quite  as  well  as  could  be  expected. 
Reggie  has  joined  his  Sissie  on  the  nuisic-hall  stage  ;  and  all 
those  who  have  witne.s.sed  his  inunensely  popular  performance 
of  the  Drunken  Gentleman  before  the  Bow  S* ''  '^t  Police  Court 
acknowledge  without  reserve  that,  after  "  faij»»ig  for  every- 
thing," he  has  dropped  at  last  into  his  true  vocation.  His 
impersonation  of  the  part  is  said  to  be  "  nature  itself."  I 
see  uo  reason  to  doubt  it. 


m{ 


}f^^-^-:^m 


CIIAPTKR   in 


run  KPisonK  f)r  tiik  wii'i';  who  nin  tikr  dt'Ty 


TO  make  you  iiiKkTstaiul  imv  next  yam,  T  tmist  go  back 
to  the  (late  of  my  introduction  to  Hilda. 

"  It  is  witchcraft  !  "  I  said  the  first  time  I  saw  her, 
at  Le  Geyt's  luncheon-party. 

She  smiled  a  smile  which  was  bewitching,  indeed,  but  l)y 
no  means  witch-like,— a  frank,  open  smile,  with  just  a  touch 
of  natural  feminine  triumph  in  it.  "  No.  not  witchcraft," 
she  answered,  helping  herself  with  her  dainty  fingers  to  a 
burnt  almond  from  the  \'enetian  glass  dish, — "  not  witch- 
craft,— memor^';  aiiled,  perhaps,  by  some  native  quickness  of 
perception.  Though  I  say  it  myself,  I  never  met  anyone,  I 
think,  whose  memory  goes  quite  as  far  as  mine  does." 

"  You  don't  mean  quite  as  far  bink,''  I  cried,  jesting  ;  for 
.she  looked  about  twenty-four,  and  had  cheeks  like  a  ripe 
nectarine,  just  as  pink  an^-.  -ust  as  softly  downy. 

She  smiled  again,  showing  a  row  of  semi-transparent  teeth, 
with  a  gleam  in  the  depths  of  them.  She  was  certainly  most 
attractive.  She  had  that  'udefinabie,  incommunicable,  un- 
analysable pensonal  quality  which  we  know  as  charm.  "  No, 
not  as  far  back''  she  repeated.  "  Though,  indeed,  I  often 
seem  to  remeniL      things  that  happened  before  I  was  born 

69 


I      ; 


70 


Hilda  Wade 


i\~^ 


i  .)• 


(like  Queen  Ivli/abetli's  visit  to  Keiiilw  tin  :  I  recollect  so 
vividly  all  that  I  have  heard  or  read  about  iheni.  lUit  as  far 
/;/  cxitni,  I  mean.  T  never  let  anything  drop  out  of  my 
memory.  As  this  case  shows  you,  I  can  recall  even  (juite 
unimportant  and  casual  bits  of  knowledge  when  any  chance 
cUie  happens  to  brin^  them  back  to  me." 

She  had  certainly  astonished  nu*.  The  occasion  for  my 
astonishment  was  the  fact  that  when  I  handed  her  my  card, 
"  Dr.  Hubert  Ford  Cuml)erledge,  St.  Nathaniel's  Hospital," 
she  had  glanced  at  it  for  a  .second  and  exclaimed,  without 
sensible  pause  or  break,  "  Oh,  then,  of  course,  you  're  half 
Welsh,  as  I  am." 

The  instantaneous  and  apparent  inconsecutiveness  of  her 
inference  took  me  aback.  "  Well,  m'yes:  I  am  half  Welsh," 
I  replied.  "  My  mother  came  from  Carnarvonshire.  Hut, 
why  t/icn^  and  of  course  ">  I  fail  to  perceive  your  train  of 
reasoning." 

She  laughed  a  sunny  little  laugh,  like  one  well  accustomed 
to  receive  such  inquiries.  "  Fancy  asking  a  7connin  to  give 
you  '  the  train  of  reasoning  '  for  her  intuitions  !  "  she  cried, 
merrily.  "  That  shows,  Dr.  Cumberledge,  that  you  are  a 
mere  man — a  man  of  science,  perhaps,  but  not  a  p.sychologi.st. 
It  also  suggests  that  you  are  a  confirmed  bachelor.  A  mar- 
ried man  accepts  intuitions,  without  expecting  them  to  be 
based  on  reasoning.  .  .  .  Well,  just  this  once,  I  will 
stretch  a  point  to  enlighten  you.  If  I  recollect  right,  your 
mother  died  about  three  years  ago  ?  " 

"  You  are  quite  correct.     Then  you  knew  my  mother  ?  " 
"  Oh,  dear  me,  no  !     I  never  even  met  her.     Why  the7i  f  " 
Her  look  was  mischievous.     "  But,  unless  I  mistake,   I 
think  she  came  from  K cadre  Coed,  near  Bangor." 


I 


TIk-  Wife  who  Did  liur  Duty  71 

"  Wales  is  a  village  !  "  I  exclaimed,  catchiiiR:  my  hreatli. 
"  ICvers  Welsh  person  seems  l)  know  all  about  every  other." 

My  new  a(;(|naintance  smiled  a^aiii.  When  she  smiled 
she  was  irresistil)le:  a  lanj;hinj;  face  protruding  from  a  cloud 
of  diaphanous  drapery.     "  Now,  sh  dl  I  tell  >  ou  how  I  came 


?"<§^2^r*?^-^' 


"oil,     IIIIN,    or    COCRSK,    vol'   'kK    ir.MF    WKI.SII,    AS    I    AM." 

to  know  that  ?  "  she  asked,  poisinj?  a  Q/aa'  cherry  on  her 
dessert  fork  in  front  of  her.  "  Shall  I  explain  my  trick,  like 
the  conjurers  ?  " 

"  Conjurers  never  explain  anything,"  I  answered.  "  They 
say:  '  So,  you  .see,  that  '.s  how  it  's  done  !  '—with  a  swift 
whisk  of  the  hand  —  and  leave  you  as  much  in  the  dark  as 


y 


^^ 


Ililila  Wade 


•Vi 


I 


m 


\ 


■a 


!   'I 


ever.     Don't  explain  like  the  eonjurers,  l)Ut  tell  me  how  you 
guessed  it." 

»She  shut  her  eyes  nnil  seemed  to  turn  her  glance  inward. 
"  About  three  years  a>;o,"  she  iiegan  slowly,  likt-  one  who 
reconstructs  with  an  effort  a  half-for^oUen  .scene,  "  I  saw  a 
notice  in  the  Times — liirlhs,  Deaths,  and  Marria};es  -'On 
the  27th  of  October  '  —  was  it  the  jjth  ?  "  The  keen  brown 
eyes  opened  a^ain  for  a. second  and  Hashed  in([uiiy  into  mine. 

"  Ouite  ri^ht,"  I  answered,  nodding. 

"  I  thought  .so.  '  On  the  jjlh  of  October,  at  Hrynmor, 
Hournemouth,  lunily  Olwen  Josephine,  widow  of  the  late 
Thomas  Cundjerled^e,  sometime  colonel  of  the  7th  Mental 
Regiment  of  Foot,  ami  dauj;hter  of  lolo  Owyn  Ford,  Ivsc)., 
J. P.,  of  Ilendre  Coed,  near  Hangor.'  Am  I  correct  ?  "  vShe 
lifted  her  dark  eyelashes  once  more  and  flooded  me. 

"  You  are  quite  correct,"  I  answered,  surpri.sed.  "  And 
that  is  really  all  that  you  knew  of  my  mother  ?  " 

"  Absolutely  all.  The  moment  I  .saw  your  card,  I  thought 
tomy.self,  in  a  breath:  '  I'ord,  Cund)erle(lge;  what  do  I  know 
of  those  two  names  ?  I  have  some  link  between  them.  Ah, 
yes  ;  found  !  Mrs.  Cumberledge,  wife  of  Colonel  Tl.omas 
Cund)erledge,  of  the  7th  Bengals,  was  a  Miss  Ford,  daughter 
of  a  Mr.  Ford,  of  Bangor. '  That  came  to  me  like  a  lightning- 
gleam.  Then  I  .said  to  myself  again,  '  Dr.  Hubert  Vox<\ 
Cumberledge  nuist  be  their  .son.'  So  there  you  have  '  the 
train  of  reasoning.'  Women  r^r;/ reason — sometimes,  I  had 
to  think  twice,  though,  before  I  could  recall  the  exact  words 
of  the  Times  notice." 

"  And  can  you  do  the  same  with  everyone  ?  " 

"  Everj'one!  Oh,  come,  now:  that  is  expecting  too  nuich! 
I  have  not  read,  marked,  learned,   and  inwardly  cigested 


If 


The  Wife  \\\u)  Dill  lur  Duty 


75 


everyone's  family  annoMiicemeiits.  I  don't  pretend  to  he 
the  Peeraj^e,  tlic  CLr^y  List,  and  the  I.<)iuh)n  Directory 
rolled  into  one.  I  n  incinliereil  voio-  fandly  all  the  more 
vividly,  no  (h)nl)t,  hejanse  of  the  prettN'  and  nnnsnal  old 
Welsh  names,  '  Ohvcn  an<l  '  lolo  (iwyn  I'^onl,'  which  lixcil 
themsLdves  on  my  memory  i)\-  their  mere  heanty.  I'Aeiy- 
thinj;  ahont  Wales  always  attracts  n."  ;  my  Welsh  side  is 
uppermost.  Hut  I  have  hundreds — oh,  thousands — of  such 
facts  stored  ami  pigeon-holed  in  my  memorv.  If  anybody 
else  cares  to  try  me,"  she  kI^i'i^'^*^!  round  tlie  tal)le,  "  per- 
haps we  may  be  able  to  te.st  my  power  that  way." 

Two  or  three  of  the  company  accepted  her  challeni^e,  giv- 
ing the  full  names  of  their  sisters  or  brothers  ;  ;ind,  in  three 
cases  out  of  five,  my  witch  was  able  to  supply  either  the 
notice  of  their  marriaj;e  or  .some  other  like  published  circum- 
stance. In  the  instance  of  Charlie  Vere,  it  is  true,  .she 
went  wronj;,  just  at  first,  though  only  in  a  single  small  par- 
ticular ;  it  was  not  Charlie  himself  who  was  gazetted  to  a 
subdicutenancy  in  the  W^arwickshire  Kegiment,  but  his 
brother  Walter.  However,  tlie  moment  she  was  toid  of  this 
.slip,  .she  corrected  her.self  :it  once,  and  added,  l!ke  liglitning, 
"  Ah,  yes:  how  .stupid  of  me!  I  have  mixed  up  the  names. 
Charles  Cas.silis  Vere  got  an  appointment  im  the  .same  day 
in  the  Rhodesian  Moiuited  Police,  did  n't  he.-*"  Which 
was  in  point  of  fact  ([uite  accurate. 

Hut  1  am  forgetting  that  all  this  time  I  have  not  even  now 
introduced  my  witch  to  you, 

Hilda  Wade,  when  I  fir.st  .saw  her,  was  one  of  the  prettiest,* 
cheeriest,  and  most  graceful  girls  I  have  ever  met — a  dusky 
blonde,  brown-eyed,  brown-haired,  with  a  creamy,  waxen 
whiteness  of  skin    that   was   yet   warm  and  peach-downy. 


II 


I  if 


74 


Hilda  Wculc 


M' 


r  ill 


And  I  wish  to  insist  from  tlu-  outset  upon  tlic  plain  fact  tliat 
there  was  nolliiii)^  uncanny  about  her.  In  .spite  of  her  sin- 
j;ular  faculty  of  insi^'hl,  wliich  sonietimcs  seemed  to  illo^jical 
people  alnjost  weird  or  eerie,  she  was  in  tlie  main  a  l)ri^lit, 
welleducited,  sensible,  winsome,  law.)  tennis  phyinj;  l*)n^; 
lish  i;iil.  Iler  vivacicms  spirits  rose  superior  to  her  sur- 
roundings, which  were  often  sad  enough.  Hut  she-  was  above 
all  thinyjs  wholesome,  unaffected,  and  sparkling  —  a  j^leam 
of  sunshine.  She  laid  »u)  cl.dm  to  supL*rnatural  powers; 
.she  held  no  dealin>;s  with  familiar  spirits  ;  she  was  simply 
a  girl  of  strong  personal  charm,  endowed  with  an  a.stound- 
in>;  memoiy  and  a  rare  measure  of  feminine  intuition.  Her 
memory,  she  told  me,  she  shared  with  her  father  and  all  her 
father's  family ;  they  were  famous  for  their  pr(idiy;ious  faculty 
in  that  respect.  Her  impulsive  temperament  and  quick  in- 
stincts, on  the  otlier  hand,  descended  to  her,  she  thought, 
from  her  mother  and  her  Welsh  ancestry. 

Ivxternally,  .she  .seemed  thus  at  first  sight  little  more  than 
the  ordinary  pretty,  light  lu'arted  I'jigli.sh  girl,  with  a  taste 
for  field  sports  (especially  riding),  and  a  native  love  of  the 
country.  Hut  at  times  one  caught  in  the  brightened  colour 
of  her  lustrous  brown  eyes  certain  curious  undercurrents  of 
depth,  of  reserve,  and  of  a  questioning  wistfulness  which 
made  you  suspect  the  presence  of  profounder  elements  in  her 
iinture.  I'Voni  the  earliest  moment  of  our  acquaintance,  in- 
deed, I  can  say  with  truth  that  Hilda  Wade  interested  me 
innnensely.  I  felt  drawn.  Her  face  had  that  .strange  quality 
of  compelling  attention  for  which  we  have  as  yet  no  English 
name,  but  wdiich  everybody  recognises.  You  could  not 
ignore  her.  She  stood  out.  vShe  was  the  sort  of  girl  one 
was  constrained  to  notice. 


y 


The  Will'  who  I)i(l  lur  Duty 


'S 


Tt  WfiM  Lc  Cit'vl's  i'lT^i  liiiu'lk'Oti  pnrty  sirtr'  his  hccoiuI 
inarrian''.  15)^  l»c'ar(kil,  ^'I'uiil,  he  l)c;itne«l  fi»uu<l  mi  ns 
jul)ilaijt.  lie  was  pr(»uil  of  liis  wile  ami  proud  ol  Ills  recent 
y.C-.hliip.  'I'lie  new  Mts.  I,e  (k'Vt  sat  nt  tlie  head  •!'  the 
table,  liaiulsotne,  cap.ilile.  self  posse sHe'i  ;  a  vivid,  vi^orDHs 
woman  and  a  model  hostess.  Though  .still  ijnite  yoim^,  she 
was  lar^jc  an<l  commanilin^.  Ivvet  \  Iwxly  was  impressed  !)>• 
her.  "  vSnch  a  j?ood  moJ'ier  to  lliose  poor  motherless  chilil- 
ren  !"  all  the  ladies  declareil  ii  i  Miornsof  appl:iiise.  And. 
indeed,  she  had  the  face  of  a  splendid  mana^jer. 

I  .said  as  much  in  an  ui  d'Ttone  over  the  ices  to  .Miss 
Wade,  who  sat  beside  me  —tiiouKb  I  onj;ht  not  to  have  dis- 
cussed them  al  their  own  table,  '  IIii^o  I,e  (ieyt  seems  to 
have  mule  an  txcellent  choice,"  I  nnirnuired.  "  Maisie 
and  Ivllie  will  be  liuky,  indeed,  to  be  taken  care  of  by  such 
a  competent  stepmother.      Ooij't  you  think  so  ?  " 

My  witch  glanced  up  at  her  hostess  with  a  piercing  dart 
of  the  keen  brown  eyes,  held  her  wine-glass  half  raised,  and 
then  electrified  me  by  uttering,  in  the  same  low  voice, 
audible  to  mc  alone,  but  ((tiite  clearly  and  unhesitatingly, 
these  astounding  words  : 

' '  I  think,  before  twelve  months  are  out,  J//,  /.c  (ii'v/  'will 
have  murdered  lur  /  " 

For  a  minute  I  could  not  answer,  so  .startling  was  the 
effect  of  this  confident  prediction.  One  does  not  expect  to 
be  told  such  things  at  lunch,  over  the  port  and  peaches, 
about  one's  dearest  friends,  l>eside  their  own  mahogany.  And 
the  assured  air  of  unfaltering  conviction  with  which  Hilda 
Wade  said  it  to  a  complete  stranger  took  my  breath  away. 
[f7n' did  she  think  so  at  all  ?  And  //she  thought  so  why 
choose  mc  as  the  recipient  of  her  singular  confidences  ? 


II 

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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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Hiotographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


m 


1^ 


t. 


76 


Hilda  Wailc 


1.1 


I  jjjasped  and  wondered. 

"  Wliat  makes  you  fancy  anything;  so  unlikely?"  I 
asked  aside  at  last,  behind  the  babel  of  voices.  "  You  quite 
alarm  me." 

vShe  rolled  a  mouthful  of  apricot  ice  reflectively  on  her 
tongue,  and  then  murnuired,  in  a  similar  aside,  "  Don't  ask 
me  now.  vSome  other  time  will  do.  But  I  mean  what  I 
say.     Believe  me  ;  I  do  not  speak  at  random." 

She  was  quite  right,  of  course.  To  contiiuie  would  have 
been  etiually  rude  and  foolish.  I  had  perforce  to  bottle  up 
my  curiosity  for  the  moment  and  wait  till  my  sibyl  was  in 
the  mood  for  interpreting. 

After  lunch  we  adjourned  to  the  drawing-rojm.  Almost 
at  once,  HiUla  Wade  flitted  up  with  her  brisk  step  to  the 
corner  where  I  was  sitting.  "  Oh,  Dr.  Cund)erlL'dge,"  .she 
began,  ns  if  nothing  odd  had  occurred  before,  "  I  7ivr.9  so  glad 
to  meet  you  and  ha\'e  a  chance  of  talking  to  you,  because  I 
do  .so  want  to  get  a  nurse's  place  at  vSt.  Nathaniel's." 

"  A  nurse's  j)lace  !  "  I  exclaimed,  a  little  surprised,  .sur- 
veying her  dre.ss  of  palest  and  softest  Indian  nuislin;  for  she 
looked  to  me  far  too  much  of  a  butterfly  for  such  .serious 
work.  "  Do  you  really  mean  it;  or  are  you  one  of  the  ten 
thousand  modern  young  ladies  who  are  in  quest  of  a  Mission, 
without  understanding  that  Mi.ssions  are  unpleasant  ?  Nurs- 
ing, I  can  tell  you,  is  not  all  crimped  cap  and  becoming 
uniform." 

"  I  know  that,"  she  an.swered,  growing  grave.  "  I  ought 
to  know  it.     I  am  a  nurse  already  at  St.  George's  Hospital." 

"  You  are  a  nurse!  And  at  St.  George's!  Yet  you  want 
to  change  to  Nathaniel's  ?  Why  ?  St.  George's  is  in  a 
much  nicer  part  of  lyondon,  and  the  patients  there  come 


The  Wife  who  Did  her  Duty  ^^ 


on  an  aveiage  from  a  mucli  hcttur  class  tliaii  ours  in  Smith- 
field." 

"I  know  that  too;  hut  .  .  .  Sehastian  is  at  vSt. 
Nathaniel's  — and  I  want  to  he  near  Sehastian." 

"  Professor  vSehastian  !  "  I  cried,  my  face  lii^htin^  up  with 
a  gleaiii  of  entiiusiasm  at  our  great  teacher's  name.     "Ah, 


I    AM    A    NM'RSK    ALUKAHV." 


if  it  is  to  be  under  Sebastir..    rliat  you  desire,  I  can  .see  you 
mean  busine.ss.     I  know  now  you  are  in  earne.st.' 

"In  earnest?"  .she  echoed,  that  .strange  deeper  .shade 
coming  over  her  face  as  .she  spoke,  while  her  tone  altered. 
"  Yes,  I  think  I  am  in  earne.st  !  It  is  my  object  in  life  to  be 
near  Sebastian— to  watch  him  and  observe  him.  I  mean  to 
succeed.  .  .  .  But  I  have  giv^n  you  my  confidence, 
perhaps  too  hastily,  and  I  must  implore  you  not  to  mention 
my  vi'ish  to  him." 

"  You  may  trust  me  implicitly,"  I  an.swered. 


II- 


N 


inl 


78 


Hilda  Wade 


-  "  Oh,  yes;  I  saw  tliat,"  she  put  in,  with  a  quick  gesture. 
*'  Of  course,  I  saw  by  your  face  you  were  a  man  of  honour — 
a  man  one  could  trust  —  or  I  would  not  have  spoken  to  you. 
But  —  you  promise  me  ?  " 

"  I  promise  }ou,"  I  replied,  naturally  flattered.  She  was 
delicately  pretty,  and  her  quaint,  oracular  air,  so  incongruous 
with  the  dainty  face  and  the  fluffy  brown  hair,  piquud  me 
not  a  little.  That  special  mysterious  commodity  of  charm 
seemed  to  pervade  all  .she  did  and  said.  So  I  added;  "And 
I  will  niention  to  Sebastian  that  you  wish  for  a  nurse's  place 
at  Nathaniel's.  As  you  have  had  experience,  and  can  be 
reconnnended,  I  suppose,  by  Le  Geyt's  sister,"  with  whom 
she  had  come,  "  no  doubt  you  can  secure  an  early  vacancy." 

"  Thanks  so  much,"  she  answered,  with  that  delicious 
smile.  It  had  an  infantile  simplicity  about  it  which  con- 
trasted most  piquantly  with  her  prophetic  manner. 

**  Only,"  I  went  on,  assuming  a  confidential  tone,  "  you 
really  must  tell  me  why  you  said  that  just  now  about  Hugo 
Le  Geyt.  Recollect,  your  Delphian  utterances  have  gravely 
astonished  and  disquieted  me.  Hugo  is  one  of  my  oldest 
and  dearest  friends  ;  and  I  want  to  know  why  you  have 
formed  this  sudden  bad  opinion  of  him." 

"  Not  of  him,  but  of  her,'"  she  answered,  to  my  surprise, 
taking  a  small  Norwegian  dagger  from  the  what-not  and 
playing  with  it  to  distract  attention. 

"  Come,  come,  now,"  I  cried,  drawing  back.  "  You  are 
trying  to  mystify  me.  This  is  deliberate  seer-mongery. 
You  are  presuming  on  your  powers.  But  I  am  not  the  sort 
of  man  to  be  caught  by  horoscopes.     I  decline  to  believe  it." 

She  turned  on  me  with  a  meaning  glance.  Those  truth- 
ful eyes  fixed  me.     "  I  am  going  from  here  straight  to  my 


The  Wife  who  Did  her  Duty  79 

hospital,"  she  nmrimired,  with  a  (juitt  air  of  kiiowlod-e  — . 
talkinjr,  i  mean  to  say,  like  one  who  really  knows.  "  This 
room  is  not  the  place  to  discuss  this  matter,  is  it  ?  If  you 
will  walk  back  to  St.  Oeor-e's  with  me,  1  tliitik  I  can  make 
you  see  and  feel  that  I  am  speakin^r,  ,iot  at  haphazard,  hut 
from  observation  and  experience." 

Her  confidence  roused  my  most  vivid  curiosity.  When 
she  left  I  left  with  her.  The  Le  Geyts  lived  in  one  of  those 
new  streets  of  large  houses  on  Campden  Hill,  so  that  our 
way  eastward  lay  naturally  through  Kensington  Gardens. 

It  was  a  sunny  June  day,  when  light  pierced  even  through 
the  .smoke  of  London,  and  the  shrubberies  breathed  the 
breath  of  white  lilacs.  "  Now,  what  did  you  mean  by  that 
enigmatical  .saying?"  I  asked  my  new  Ca.ssandra,  as  we 
strolled  down  the  scent-laden  path.  "  Woman's  intuition  is 
all  very  well  in  its  way;  but  a  mere  man  may  be  excused  if 
he  asks  for  evidence." 

She  stopped  short  as  I  spoke,  and  gazed  full  into  my  eyes. 
Her  hand  fingered  her  parasol  handle.  "  I  meant  what  I 
said,"  she  answered,  with  emphasi.s.  "  WMthin  one  year, 
Mr.  Le  Geyt  will  have  murdered  his  wife.  You  may  take 
my  word  for  it." 

"  Le  Geyt  !  "  I  cried.  *'  Never  !  I  know  the  man  so 
well  !  A  big,  good-natured,  kindly  schoolboy  !  He  is  the 
gentlest  and  best  of  mortals.  Le  Geyt  a  murderer  !  Im- 
possible !  " 

Her  eyes  were  faraway.  "  Has  it  never  occurred  to  you," 
she  asked,  slowly,  with  her  pythoness  air,  "  that  there  are 
murders  and  murders  ?— murders  which  depend  in  the  main 
upon  the  murderer  .  .  .  ar  J  also  murders  which  depend 
iu  the  main  upon  the  victim  ?  " 


II 


8o 


Hilda  \V:ulc 


i> 


•I 


II: 

1'- 


Mi 


.     "  The  victim  ?     What  do  you  ineati  ?  " 

"  Well,  there  arc  1)1  iital  lueii  who  coiiiinit  murder  out  of 
sheer  brutalitj' — the  rufilaus  of  tiie  slums;  and  there  arc  sor- 
did luen  who  conuuit  uuirdcr  for  sordid  money — the  insurers 
who  want  to  forestall  their  policies,  the  poisoners  who  want 
to  inherit  property ;  but  have  you  ever  realised  that  there  are 
also  uuirderers  who  become  so  by  accident,  throuj;h  their 
victims'  idiosyncrasy  ?  I  thoui^ht  all  the  lime  while  I  was 
vvatchint;  Mrs.  I,e  (ieyt,  '  That  woman  is  of  the  sort  pre- 
destined to  be  nuirdered.'  .  .  .  And  when  you  asked  me, 
I  told  you  so.  I  may  have  been  imprudent  ;  still,  I  saw  it, 
and  I  said  it." 

"  Hut  this  is  second  si^ht!  '"  I  cried,  drawinj;  away.  "  Do 
you  pretend  to  prevision  ?  " 

"  No,  not  .second  si^ht;  nothinij^  uncanny,  nothin.c;  super- 
natural. But  prevision,  yes  ;  prevision  based,  not  on  omens 
or  auguries,  but  '>r  solid  fact  —  on  what  I  have  seen  and 
noticed." 

"  Explain  yourself,  oh,  prophetess  !  " 

She  let  the  point  of  her  parasol  make  a  curved  trail  on  the 
gravel,  and  followed  its  serpentine  wavings  with  her  eyes. 
**  You  know  our  house  surgeon  ?  "  she  asked  at  last,  looking 
up  of  a  sudden. 

"  What,  Travers  ?     Oh,  intimately." 

**  Then  come  to  my  ward  and  see.  After  you  have  seen, 
you  will  perhaps  believe  me." 

Nothing  that  I  could  .say  would  get  any  further  explanation 
out  of  her  just  then.  "  You  would  laugh  at  me  if  I  told  you," 
she  persisted;  "  j'ou  won't  laugh  when  you  have  seen  it," 

We  walked  on  in  silence  as  far  as  Hyde  Park  Corner. 
There  my  Sphinx  tripped  lightly  up  the  steps  of  St.  George's 


The  Wife  who  Did  her  Duty 


81 


Hospital.  "  Oct  Mr.  Travors's  leave,"  she  said,  with  a  notl 
and  a  brij^ht  smile,  "  to  visit  Nurse  Wade's  ward.  Then 
come  up  to  me  there  in  five  minutes." 

I  explained  to  my  friend  the  house  surgeon  that  I  wished 
to  .see  certain  ca.ses  in  the  accident  ward  of  which  I  had  heard  ; 
he  smiled  a  restrained  .smile — "  Nurse  Wade,  no  doubt  !  " 
but,  ofcour.se,  j;avc  me  permission  to  j^jo  up  and  look  at  them. 
"  Stop  a  minute,"  he  added,  "  and  I  '11  come  with  you." 
When  we  ^ot  there,  my  witch  had  already  changed  her  dre.ss, 
and  was  waiting  for  us  demurely  in  the  neat  dove-coloured 
j;own  and  smooth  white  apron  of  the  hospital  nurses.  »She 
looked  even  prettier  and  more  meaningful  so  than  in  her 
ethereal  outside  summer-cloud  mu.slin. 

"  Come  over  to  this  bed,"  she  said  at  once  to  Travers  and 
myself,  without  the  lea.st  air  of  my.stery.  "  I  will  .show  you 
what  I  mean  by  it." 

* '  Nurse  Wade  has  remarkable  insight, ' '  Travers  whispered 
to  me  as  we  went. 

*'  I  can  believe  it,"  I  answered. 

"  lyook  at  this  woman,"  she  went  on,  aside,  in  a  low  voice 
— "  no,  not  the  first  bed  ;  the  one  beyond  it;  Nund)er  60.  I 
don't  want  the  patient  to  know  you  are  watching  her.  Do 
you  observe  anything  odd  about  her  appearance  ?  " 

"  She  is  somewhat  the  same  type,"  I  began,  "  as 
Mrs. " 

Before  I  could  get  out  the  words  "  Le  Geyt,"  her  warning 
e3'e  and  puckering  forehead  had  stopped  me.  "  As  the  lady 
we  were  discussing,"  she  interposed,  with  a  quiet  v;ave  of 
one  hand.  "  Yes,  in  some  points  very  much  so.  You  notice 
in  particular  her  scanty  hair— so  thiu  and  poor — though  she 
is  young  and  good-looking  ? ' ' 

6 


I! 


.■' 


82 


Uikhi  Wailc 


\m 


J 


Ml:!' 


|,i! 


::  ll 


;M' 


i  Hi 

ill 


*'  It  is  certainly  ratlier  a  fcchlo  crop  for  a  woman  of  licr 
age,"  I  admitted.     "  And  ])ale  at  that,  and  washy." 

"  Precisely.  It  's  done  up  behind  about  as  big  as  a  nut- 
meg. .  .  .  Now,  observe  the  contour  of  her  back  as  she 
sits  up  theie  ;  it  is  curiously  curved,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Very,"  I  replied.  "  Not  exactly  a  stoop,  nor  yet  quite 
a  huncl:,  but  certainly  an  odd  .spinal  configuration." 

"  Like  our  friend's,  once  more  ?  " 

"  Like  our  friend's,  exactly  !  " 

Hilda  Wade  looked  .way,  lest  she  .should  attract  the  pa- 
tient's attention.  "  Well,  that  woman  was  brought  in  here, 
h:ilf-(lead,  assaulted  by  her  hu.sband,"  she  went  on,  with  a 
note  of  unobtrusive  demonstration. 

"  We  get  a  great  many  such  cases,"  Travers  put  in,  with 
true  medical  unconcern,  "  very  interesting  cases;  and  Nurse 
Wade  has  pointed  out  to  me  the  singular  fact  that  in  almost 
all  in.stances  the  patients  resend)le  one  another  phy.sically." 

"  Incredil)le  !  "  I  cried.  "  I  can  understand  that  there 
might  well  be  a  type  of  men  who  a.ssault  their  wives,  but  not, 
surely,  a  type  of  women  who  get  assaulted." 

"  That  is  because  you  ktiow  less  about  it  than  Nurse 
Wade,"  Travers  answered,  with  an  annoying  .smile  of 
superior  knowledge. 

Our  instructress  moved  on  to  another  bed,  laying  one 
gentle  hand  as  she  pas.sed  on  a  patient's  forehead.  The 
patient  glanced  gratitude.  "  That  one  again,"  she  said 
once  mo»'e,  half  indicating  a  cot  at  a  little  distance  :  "  Num- 
ber 74.  She  has  much  the  same  thin  hair  —  sparse,  weak, 
and  colourless.  She  has  much  the  same  curved  back,  and 
much  the  same  aggressive,  self-assertive  features.  Looks 
capable,  doesn't  she?     A  born  housewife  !     .     .     .     Well, 


'I'lu'  Wile  wlio  I  )i(l  liii   I  )iity 


■\? 


she,  too,  was  knocked  down  and  kicked  hall-de:ul  the  oilier 
iii^ht  by  her  liushand." 

"  It  is  certainly  odd,'  I  answered,  "  how  very  ninoh  tliey 
botii  recall " 

"  Our  friefid  at  lunch  !     Ves,  extraordinary.     Sjc  here  "; 


SHE  DREW  THE  fJlK'K  OIII.INE  oK  A  l'A(  E  IN   III.K  N( » 1  K-UOOK. 


she  pulled  out  a  pencil  and  drew  the  quick  outline;  of  a  face 
in  her  note-book.  "  That  is  what  is  central  and  es.senlial  to 
the  type.  They  have  this  sort  of  profile.  Women  with  faces 
like  that  ahvays  get  as.saulted." 

Travers  glanced  over  her  .shoulder.  "  Quite  true,"  he 
assented,  with  his  bourgeois  nod.  "  Nurse  Wade  in  her  time 
has  shown  me  dozens  of  them.      Round  dozens  :   bakers' 


I  l1 


84 


Ililila  \V;ulc 


'H. 


M 


(lo/c'iis  !  Tlicy  all  hcloiij^  to  that  species.  In  fail,  when  u 
woman  of  this  type  is  hronKht  in  to  us  wounded  now,  I  ask 
at  once,  '  IIusluuul  ? '  and  the  invariable  answer  comes  pat : 
'  Well,  yes,  sir  ;  we  had  some  words  together.'  The  elTect 
of  words,  my  dear  fellow,  is  something  truly  snrprisinj^." 

"  They  can  pierce  like  a  da^K'-'J"."  ^  nuised. 

"  And  leave  anoj)en  wonntl  l)ehind  that  rc(|niresiiressin^," 
Travers  added,  misMspcctiuK.      Practical  man.  Tr avers  ! 

"Hut  'ii'/iy  do  they  yi,Kii  assaulted —the  women  of  this 
type  ?  "  I  asked,  still  hewildered. 

"  Nund)er  87  has  her  mother  just  come  to  see  her,"  my 
sorceress  interposed.  '*  S/ic  '.v  an  assault  case  ;  brought  in  last 
niy;ht  ;  badly  kicked  and  bruised  about  the  head  and  shoul- 
ders.    vSpeak  to  the  mother.     She  '11  explain  it  all  to  you." 

Travers  and  I  moved  over  to  the  cot  her  hand  scarcely  in- 
dicatetl.  "  Well,  your  daughter  looks  pretty  comfortal)le 
this  afternoon,  in  spite  of  the  little  fu.ss,"  Travers  began, 
tentatively. 

"  Vus,  .she  's  a  bit  tidy,  thanky,"  the  mother  answered, 
smoothing  her  .soiled  black  gown,  grown  green  with  long 
service.  "  She  '11  git  on  naow,  plea.se  Oord.  Hut  Joe  mo.st 
did  for  'er." 

"  How  did  it  all  happen?"  Travers  a.skcd,  in  a  jaunty 
tone,  to  draw  her  out. 

"  Well,  it  was  like  thi.s,  .sir,  yer  .see.  My  daughter,  .she  's 
a  lidy  as  keeps  'erself /c?  'erself,  as  the  sayin'  is,  an'  'olds  'er 
'ead  up.  She  keeps  up  a  proper  pride,  an'  minds  'er  'ou.se 
an'  'er  little  uns.  She  ain't  no  gadabaht.  But  .she  \ivc  a 
tongue,  she  'ave  "  ;  the  mother  lowered  her  voice  cautiously, 
lest  the  "  lidy  "  should  hear.  "  I  don't  deny  it  that  she  'avc 
a  tongue,  at  times,  through  myself  'avin'  suffered  from  it. 


p^ 


o 


> 

■J 


CO 


86 


llild.i  W'.kIi' 


i  ,  .1 


And  wlictj  she  i/o  j^o  oti,  T.ord  Mchm  you,  why,  there*  ain't  no 
Mloppin'  of  'cr." 

"  Oh,  she  han  a  toii^nc,  has  she  ^ "  Travcrs  rcplictl,  sur- 
veying the  "  case  "  critic  lly.  "  Well,  you  know,  she  I'.oks 
like  it." 

'•  So  she  do,  sir  ;  so  she  do.  An'  Joe,  'e's  a  man  as 
would  n't  'urt  u  hihy  —  not  when  'e  'h  sober,  Joe  wotdil  n't. 
H»it  'e  'd  l)in  nht;  that 's  where  it  is  ;  an'  'e  cum  'ome  lite,  a 
l)it  fresh,  through  'avin'  bin  at  the  fiiendly  leail  ;  an'  my 
dauvihlcr,  yer  scv,  she  up  an'  ii^Wa  it  to  'im.  My  word,  she 
t/f'(/  v;ive  it  to  'im  !  An'  Joe,  'e  's  a  peaceable  man  when  'e 
ain't  a  bit  fresh  ;  'e  '8  more  like  a  friend  to  er  than  an  'us- 
band,  Joe  is  ;  i)Ut  'e  lost  'is  temper  that  time,  as  yer  may  say, 
by  reason  o'  bein'  fresh,  an'  'e  knocked  'er  abaht  a  little,  an' 
knocked  'er  teeth  aht.     vSo  we  brouf;ht  'er  to  the  orspital." 

The  injured  woman  raised  herself  up  in  bed  with  a  vin- 
dictive scowl,  displayinj;  as  she  did  so  the  same  whale  like 
curved  back  as  in  the  other  "  cases."  "  Hut  we  've  sent  'im 
to  the  lockup,"  she  continued,  the  scowl  K'^'''>R  w'ay  fast 
to  a  radiant  joy  of  victory  as  she  contemplated  her  trium])h  ; 
"  an'  wot  's  more,  I  'ad  the  last  word  of  'im.  'An  'e  '11  ^\t 
six  month  for  this,  the  neij^hbours  says  ;  an'  when  he  comes 
aht  a^ain,  my  Gord,  won't  'e  ketch  it  !  " 

"  You  look  capable  of  punishing  him  for  it,"  I  answered, 
and  as  I  spoke,  I  shuddered  ;  for  I  saw  her  expression  was 
precisely  the  expression  Mrs.  Le  Geyt's  face  had  worn  for  a 
pa.ssing  second  when  her  husband  accidentally  trod  on  her 
dress  as  we  left  the  dining-room. 

My  witch  moved  away.  We  followed.  "  Well,  what  do 
you  say  to  it  now  ?  "  she  asked,  gliding  among  the  beds  with 
noiseless  feet  and  ministering  fingers. 


The  Wife  uIm.  Did  \u\  Duty 


«7 


••  Sny  lo  it  r*  I  auHwccil.  '•That  it  i«.  wDH.UtluI. 
uondiTtul,     Von  have  <|nilc  lonx  iiu'cd  inc." 

"  Yon  would  llniik  so,  '  TravcrH  put  in,  "  if  you  l»ad  \kv\\ 
in  this  ward  as  oflcn  as  I  havt*.  and  ohsvrvi'd  their  facis. 
It  'h  a  <lcad  certainty.  Sooner  or  later,  that  is  pe  ol  woman 
is  cocksure  to  he  assaulted." 

"  In  a  certain  rank  of  life,  perhaps,"  I  .inswered,  still  loth 
to  believe  it  ;  "  l)Ut  not  surely  in  ours,  (lenlleinen  flo  not 
knock  down  their  wives  and  kii'k  their  leelh  out." 

M>  Sil)>l  smiled.  "No;  there  class  tells."  she  admitted. 
"  They  take  lon^;er  about  it,  and  sulTer  more  provocation. 
They  curl)  tluir  tempers.  Hut  in  the  end,  one  day,  they  are 
goaded  beyond  endurance;  and  then — a  convenient  knife — a 
rusty  old  sword  —  a  pair  of  sci.ssors  —  anything  that  comes 
handy,  like  that  da^^er  this  morning  <hie  wild  blow — 
half   unpremeditated  —  and  the    thinv;;    is    done! 

Twelve  i;()od  men  and  true  will  find  it  wilful  nuirder." 

I  felt  really  perturbed.  "  iUit  can  we  do  nothing,"  I  cried, 
"  to  warn  poor  IIuj^o  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  I  fear,"  she  auswered.  "  After  all,  character 
must  work  it.self  ont  in  its  interactions  with  character,  lie 
has  married  that  woman,  and  he  nuist  t.'.ke  the  consecpiences. 
Does  not  each  of  us  in  life  sufier  perforce  the  Nemesis  of  his 
own  temperament  ?  " 

"  Then  is  there  not  also  a  type  of  men  who  assault  their 
wives?" 

"  That  is  the  odd  part  of  it  —  no.  All  kinds,  p^ood  and 
bad,  quick  and  slow,  can  be  driven  to  it  at  last.  The  cpiiek- 
tempered  stab  or  kick  ;  the  slow  devise  some  deliberate 
means  of  riddini?  thems^'lves  of  their  burden." 

*'  But  surely  we  might  caution  lyC  Geyt  of  his  danger  !  " 


' 


l( 


88 


Hilda  Waclc 


"  It  is  useless.  He  would  not  believe  us.  We  cannot  l>e 
at  his  elbow  to  hold  l)ack  his  hand  when  the  bad  nionient 
conies.  Nobody  will  be  there,  as  a  matter  of  fact  ;  for  wo- 
men of  this  temperament  born  na.nj;ers,  in  siiort,  since 
that  's  what  it  comes  to  when  they  are  al.so  lailies,  j;racefnl 
and  j^racious  as  .she  is,  never  na^  at  all  before  outsiders. 
To  the  world,  they  are  bland  ;  everybody  .says,  '  What 
charming  talkers  !  '  They  are  '  aneels  abroad,  devils  at 
home,'  as  the  proverl)  puts  it.  Soiue  nij;ht  she  will  provoke 
him  when  they  are  alone,  till  .she  has  reached  his  utmost 
limit  of  endurance—  and  then,"  she  drew  one  hand  across 
her  dove-like  throat,  "  it  will  be  all  finished." 

*'  You  think  .so?" 

"  I  am  .sure  of  it.  We  human  beings  i^o  .straight  like 
sheep  to  our  natural  destiny." 

•'  But  — that  is  fatalism." 

"  No,  not  fatalism  :  insight  into  temperament.  Fatalists 
believe  that  your  life  is  arranged  for  you  beforehand  from 
without  ;  willy-nilly,  you  /;///.s/  act  so.  I  only  believe  that 
in  this  jostling  world  your  life  is  mostly  determined  l)y  your 
own  character,  in  its  interaction  with  the  characters  of  those 
who  surround  you.  Temperament  works  itself  out.  It  is 
your  own  acts  and  deeds  that  make  up  Fate  for  you." 


For  some  months  after  this  meeting  neither  Hilda  Wade 
nor  I  saw  anything  more  of  the  Le  Geyts.  They  left  town 
for  Scotland  at  the  end  of  the  season  ;  and  when  all  the 
grouse  had  been  duly  slaughtered  and  all  the  salmon  duly 
hooked,  they  went  on  to  Iveice.ster.shire  for  the  opening  of 
fox-hunting  ;  so  it  was  not  till  after  Christmas  that  they  re- 
turned to  Campden  Hill.     Meanwhile,  I  had  spoken  to  Dr. 


The  Wife  who  Did  hrr  Duty  89 

Sd)asti:m  ahoiit  Miss  Wado,  ami  on  my  Rcoiumciidation  he 
liad  roiiiul  licr  a  vacancy  at  onr  lu.si)ital.  "  A  ujosf  intulli- 
Mt-'iit  Kirl,  Cunihcrledj-v,"  he  remarked  lo  me  with  a  rare 
hnrst  of  approval  lor  th.c  Professor  was  always  critical  -- 
after  she  had  heen  at  work  for  some  weeks  at  St.  Natlianiel's. 
"  I  am  Khid  yon  introdnced  her  here.  A  nnrse  with  brains 
is  snch  a  valnahle  accessory  -nidess,  of  course,  she  takes  to 
thinkin^i.  Ihit  Nnrse  Wade  never  thinks;  she  is  a  nsefnl 
instrnment  — does  what  she  's  told,  and  carries  ont  one's 
orders  implicitly." 

"  vShe  knows  encnii-h  to  know  when  she  doesn't  know,"  I 
answered,  "which  is  really  the  rarest  kind  of  knowledge." 

"  Unrecorded  amoni;  yonn^  doctors  !  "  the  Profes.sor  re- 
torted, with  his  sardonic  smile.  "  They  think  they  nnder- 
stand  the  hnman  body  from  top  to  toe,  when,  in  reality  — 
well,  they  mi^^ht  do  the  measles  !  " 

Ivarly  in  Jannary,  I   was  invited  ap^ain  to  Inncli  with  the 
U'  Geyts.     Hilda  Wade  was  invited,   too.     The   moment 
we  entered  the  honse,  we  were  both  of  us  aware  that  some 
Rriju  channe  had  come  over  it.     U  Oeyt  met   ns  in  the 
hall,  in  his  old  genial  style,  it  is  true  ;  but  still  with  a  cer- 
tain reserve,  a  curious  veiled    timidity  which  we   had  not 
known  in  him.     WVr  and  good-humoured  as  he  was,  with 
kindly    eyes    beneath    the    shacrcry    eyebrows,    he   seemed 
strangely  subdued  now  ;  the  boyish  buoyancy  had  gone  out 
of  him.     He  spoke  rather  lower  than  was  his  natural  key, 
and  welcomed  us  warmly,  though  less  effnsively  than  of  old. 
An  irreproachable  housemaid,  in  a  spotless  cap,  ushered  us 
iuto  the  transfigured  drawing-room.     Mrs.    I,e  Geyt,   in  a 
pretty  cloth  dress,  neatly  tailor-made,  rose  to  meet  us,  beam- 
ing the  vapid  smile  of  the  perfect  hostess  — that  impartial 


90 


Hilda  Wailc 


I 


'  •! 


m 

!  ^M 


n  I! 


■  ■■  f;„ 
I  -.ii 

I.    .  i-!| 


siuilc  which  falls,  like  the  rain  I'loiii  Iljaveti,  or  ;;ood  and 
bad  indifferently.  "  So  charmed  to  see  yon  a<;ain,  Dr. 
Cnniherledge  !  "  .she  hnhhlei)  ont,  with  a  cheerfnl  air  —  she 
was  always  cheerful,  mechanically  cheerful,  from  a  sen.se  of 
duty.  "  It  /s  such  a  pleasur.'  to  meet  dear  IIuj^o's  old  friends! 
A//(/  Miss  Wade,  too  ;  how  deli;.',htfnl  !  Von  look  .so  well, 
Miss  Wade  !  Oh,  you  're  both  at  vSt.  Nathaniel's  now,  are  n't 
you  ?  »So  you  can  come  together.  What  a  privilege  for  you. 
Dr.  Cundjerledge,  to  have  such  a  clever  assistant — or,  rather, 
fellow-worker.  It  must  be  a  great  life,  yours,  Miss  Wade  ; 
such  a  sphere  of  usefulness!  If  we  can  only  feel  we  are 
doini^jrood — tiiat  is  the  main  matter.  For  my  own  part,  I 
like  to  be  mixed  up  with  every  good  work  that 's  going  on  in 
my  neighbourhood.  I  'm  the  .soup-kitchen,  you  know,  and 
I  'm  visitor  at  the  worlchouse  ;  atid  I  'm  the  Dorcas  Society, 
and  the  Mutual  Improvement  Class  ;  and  the  Preventicn  of 
Cruelty  to  Animals  and  to  Children,  and  I  'm  sure  I  don't 
know  how  much  else  ;  .so  that,  what  with  all  that,  and  what 
with  dear  Hugo  and  the  darling  children" — she  glanced 
affectionately  at  Maisie  and  Ettie,  who  sat  bolt  upright,  very 
mute  and  still,  in  their  be.st  and  stiffest  frocks,  on  two  .stools 
in  the  corner — "  I  can  hardly  find  lime  for  my  social  duties." 

"  Oh,  dear  Mrs.  I<e  Geyt,"  one  of  her  visitors  said  with 
effusion,  from  bijneath  a  nodding  bonnet  —  she  was  the  wife 
of  a  rural  dean  from  Staffordshire  — "  everybody  is  agreed  that 
r^/^r  social  duties  are  performed  to  a  marvel.  They  are  the 
envy  of  Kensington.  We  all  of  us  wonder,  indeed,  how  one 
woman  can  find  time  for  all  of  it  !  " 

Our  hostess  looked  pleased.  "  Well,  yes,"  she  answered, 
gazing  down  at  her  faw^n-coloured  dress  with  a  half-suppre.ssed 
smile  of  self-satisfaction,  "  I  flatter  myself  I  ean  get  through 


■ 


The  Wife  who  Did  her  Duty 


91 


about  as  mucli  work  in  a  day  as  niiyhody  !  "  Ilcr  eye  wan- 
dered round  lier  rooms  with  ;i  modest  air  of  placid  self- 
approval  which  was  almost  comic.  I^verythinj:^  in  tlieni  was 
as  well-kept  and  as  well-i)olishe(l  as<;ood  servants,  thoroui;hly 
drilled,  could  make  it.  Not  a  stain  or  a  speck  anywhere.  A 
miracle  of  neat- 
ness. Indeed, 
when  I  careless- 
ly drew  the  Nor- 
we<;ian  daj^^i^er 
from  its  s<-  a  h  - 
bard,  as  w  e 
waited  for  lunch, 
and  found  that 
it  stuck  in  the 
sheath,  I  almost 
started  to  dis- 
cover that  rust 
could  intrude 
into  that  orderly 
household. 

T      recollected 

then  how  Hilda  Wade  had  pointed  out  to  me  during  those 
six  months  at  St.  Nathaniel's  that  the  women  whose  hus- 
bancls  assaulted  them  were  almost  always  "  notable  house- 
wives," as  they  say  in  America — good  souls  who  prided 
themselves  not  a  little  on  their  skill  in  management.  They 
were  capable,  practical  mothers  of  families,  with  a  boundless 
belief  in  them.selves,  a  sincere  desire  to  do  their  duty,  as  far 
as  they  understood  it,  and  a  habit  of  impressing  their  virtues 
upon  others  which  was  quite  beyond  all  human  endurance. 


"I'HK   NOKWK.CIAN   I).\(;(;KK." 


92 


Hilda  Wade 


Placidity  was  their  note  ;  provoking  placidity.  I  felt  sure 
it  must  have  been  of  a  woman  of  this  type  thnt  the  famous 
plirase  was  coined  — ''  Jillc  a  ioiitcs  lis  vctius  —  li  cllc  est 
insuppo)  tabic  y 

"  Clara,  dear,"  the  husband  said,  "  shall  we  go  in  to 
lunch?" 

"  You  dear,  stupid  boy  !  Are  we  not  all  waiting  forjw^ 
to  give  your  arm  to  Lady  Maitland  ?  " 

The  lunch  was  perfect,  and  it  was  perfectly  served.  The 
silver  glowed  ;  the  linen  was  marked  with  11.  C.  Le  O.  in  a 
most  artistic  monogram.  I  noticed  that  the  table  decorations 
were  extremely  pretty.  Somebody  complimented  our  hostess 
upon  them.  Mr.s.  Le  Geyt  nodded  and  smiled — "  /arranged 
them.  Dear  Hugo,  in  his  blundering  way— the  big  darling 
—  forgot  to  get  me  the  orchids  I  had  ordered.  So  I  had  to 
make  .shift  with  what  few  things  our  own  wee  conservatory 

afforded.     Still,  with  a  little  taste  and  a  little  ingenuity " 

She  surveyed  her  handiwork  with  just  pride,  and  left  the 
rest  to  our  imaginations. 

"  Only  you  ought  to  explain,  Clara "  Le  Geyt  began, 

in  a  deprecatory  tone. 

"  Now,  you  darling  old  bear,  we  won't  harp  on  that  twice- 
told  tale  again,"  Clara  interrupted,  with  a  knowing  smile. 
"  Point  dc  rcchaujjcs  I  Let  us  leave  one  another's  misdeeds 
and  one  another's  explanations  for  their  proper  sphere — the 
family  circle.  The  orchids  did  not  turn  up,  that  is  the  point; 
and  I  managed  to  make  shift  with  the  plumbago  and  the 
geranivnns.  Maisie,  my  sweet,  not  that  pudding,  if  you 
please  ;  too  rich  for  you,  darling.  I  know  your  digestive 
capacities  better  than  you  do.  1  have  told  you  fifty  times  it 
does  n't  agree  with  you.     A  small  slice  of  the  other  one  !  " 


The  Wife  who  Did  her  Duty 


93 


<«  \r. 


Yes,  inainina,"  Maisie  answered,  witli  a  cowed  and  cow- 
ering air.  I  felt  sure  she  would  have  nmrnuired,  "  Yes, 
nianuna,"  in  the  selfsame  tone  if  the  second  Mrs.  I<e  (»eyt 
had  ordered  her  to  hanj;  herself. 

"  I  saw  you  out  in  the  park,  yesterday,  on  your  bicycle, 
Kttie,"  Le  Geyt's  .sister,  Mrs.  Mallet,  put  in.  "  Hut  do  you 
know,  dear,  I  did  n't  think  your  jacket  was  half  warm 
enough." 

"  Mamma  doesn't  like  me  to  wear  a  warmer  one,"  the 
child  answered,  with  a  visible  .shudder  of  recollection, 
"  though  I  .should  love  to.  Aunt  Una." 

"  My  precious  Ivttie,  what  nonsense — for  a  violentexerci.se 
like  bicycling  !  Where  one  gets  so  hot  !  So  unbecomingly 
hot!  You  'd  be  .simply  .stifled,  darling."  I  caught  a  darted 
glance  which  accompanied  the  words  and  which  made  I'Htie 
recoil  into  the  reces.ses  of  her  pudding. 

**  But  yesterday  was  so  cold,  Clara,"  Mrs.  Mallet  went  on, 
actually  venturing  to  oppo.se  the  infallible  authority.  "  A 
nipping  morning.  And  such  a  flimsy  coat  !  Might  not  the 
dear  child  be  allowed  to  judge  for  herself  in  a  matter  purely 
of  her  own  feelings  ?  " 

Mrs.  Le  Geyt,  with  just  the  shadow  of  a  .shrug,  was  all 
sweet  reasonableness.  She  .smiled  more  suavely  than  ever. 
"  Surely,  Lina,"  she  remonstrated,  in  her  frankest  and  most 
convincing  tone,  "  /must  know  best  what  is  good  for  dear 
Ettie,  when  I  have  been  watching  her  daily  for  more  than  six 
months  past,  and  taking  the  greatest  pains  to  understand 
both  her  constitution  and  her  disposition.  She  needs  harden- 
ing, Ettie  does.  Hardening.  Don't  you  agree  with  me, 
Hugo?" 

lye  Geyt  shuffled  uneasily  in  his  chair.     Big  man  as  he 


t  ■ 


'il, 


i      I 


'At 


u 


»*.; 


I 


1 


1  f 


;  i 


94 


Hilda  Wade 


was,  with  his  great  hhick  l^canl  and  manly  hearing,  I  could 
sec  he  was  afraid  to  iliflc'r  from  her  overtly.  "  Well, — in — 
perhaps,  Clara,"  he  began,  peering  from  under  the  shaggy 
eyebrows,  "  it  would  be  l)est  for  a  delicate  child  like 
I'ltie " 

Mrs.  I,e  Geyt  smiled  a  compassionate  smile.  "  Ah,  I  for- 
got," sh'2  cooed,  sweetly.  "  Dear  Hugo  never  at//  mider- 
stand  the  ui)bringing  of  children.  It  is  a  sense  denied  him. 
We  women  know" — with  a  sage  nod.  "They  were  wild 
little  .savages  when  I  took  them  in  hand  first— were  n't  you, 
Maisie  .''  Do  you  remember,  dear,  how  you  broke  the  look- 
ing-glass in  the  l)Oudoir,  like  an  untamed  yoinig  monkey  ? 
Talking  of  monkeys,  Mr.  Cot.swould,  //arc  you  .seen  tho.se 
delightful,  clever,  anuising  French  pictures  at  that  place  in 
Suffolk  vStreet  ?  There  's  a  man  there — a  Parisian — I  forget 
his  honoured  name — Leblanc,  or  Lenoir,  or  Lebrun,  or  some- 
thing—  but  he  's  a  mo.st  humorous  artist,  and  he  paints 
monkeys  and  storks  and  all  sorts  of  queer  ben.stits  ah/:ost  as 
quaintly  and  expressively  as  you  do.  Mind,  I  ^:\\  a/)//ost : 
for  I  never  will  allow  that  any  Fretichnian  could  do  any- 
thing qn/'fc  so  good,  quite  so  funnily  mock-human,  as  your 
marabouts  and  professors." 

"  What  a  charming  hostess  Mrs.  Le  Geyt  makes,"  the 
painter  observed  to  me,  after  lunch.  "  Such  tact !  Such  dis- 
crimination !     .     .     .     And,  what  a  devoted  .stepmother  !  " 

"  She  is  one  of  the  local  secretaries  of  the  Society  for  the 
Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Children,"  I  said,  drily. 

"  And  charity  begins  at  home,"  Hilda  Wade  added,  in  a 
significant  aside. 

We  walked  home  together  as  far  as  Stanhope  Gate.  Our 
sense  of  doom  oppressed  us.     "  And  yet,"  I  said,  turning  to 


DOUUTS  ARE   NOT   IN    HER   LINE." 


95 


<,6 


Hilda  Wade 


her,  as  wc  left  the  doorstep,  '*  T  don't  doubt  Mrs.  I,c  Oeyt 
really  believes  she  /s  a  model  slepinother  !  " 

"Of  course  she  believes  it,"  my  witch  answered.  "  vShe 
has  no  more  doubt  al)()UL  that  than  about  anything  else. 
Doubts  are  not  in  her  line.  She  does  everything  exactly  as 
it  ou^ht  to  be  done  —  who  should  know,  if  not  she  ?  —  and 
therefore  she  is  never  afraid  of  criticism.  Hardening,  in- 
deed !  that  poor  slenrler,  tender,  shrinking;  little  Ivttie  !  A 
frail  exotic.  yShe  would  harden  her  into  a  skeleton  if  she 
had  her  wry.  Nothinj^  's  much  harder  than  a  skeleton,  I 
suppose,  except  Mrs.  Le  Geyt's  manner  of  training;  one." 

"  I  should  be  .sorry  to  thiid'C,"  I  broke  in,  "  that  that 
.sweet  little  floatinj^  thistle-down  of  a  child  I  once  knew  was 
to  be  done  to  death  by  her." 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,  she  will  fiol  be  done  to  death,"  Hilda 
answered,  in  her  confident  way.  "  Mrs.  Le  Geyt  won't  live 
lonjj;  enough." 

1  started.     "  You  think  not  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think,  I  am  sure  of  it.  We  are  at  the  fifth  act 
now.  I  watched  Mr.  I^e  Gtyt  closely  all  through  lunch,  anu 
I  'm  more  confident  than  ever  that  the  end  is  coming.  He 
is  temporarily  crushed  ;  but  he  is  like  steam  in  a  boiler, 
seething,  seething,  seething.  One  day  she  will  sit  on  the 
.safety-valve,  and  the  explo.sion  will  come.  When  it  comes  " 
—  she  raised  aloft  one  quick  hand  in  the  air  as  if  striking  a 
dagger  home — "  good-bye  to  her  !  " 

For  the  next  few  months  I  saw  much  of  Le  Geyt ;  and  the 
more  I  saw  of  him,  the  more  I  saw  that  my  witch's  prognosis 
was  essentially  correct.  They  never  quarrelled  ;  but  Mrs. 
Le  Geyt,  in  her  unobtrusive  way,  held  a  quiet  hand  over  her 
husband  which  became  increasingly  apparent.     In  the  midst 


The  Wife  who  \)'u\  lur  Duty 


97 


of  her  fancy  work  (tliosc  l)iisy  fiiiK'tTS  were  never  idle)  she 
kept  her  eyes  well  fixed  on  hin>.  Now  nnd  i\^:\'\i\  I  saw  him 
glance  at  his  motherless  };irls  with  what  looked  liUe  a  tender, 
|)rt)teetin^  regret,  es|)eciall\  wiien  "  Clara"  had  been  most 
openly  drilling;  them  ;  hnt  he  dared  not  interfere.  She  was 
crnshin^  their  spirit,  as  she  wascrnshiiiK  their  father's — and 
all,  hear  in  ndml,  for  the  best  of  motives  !  She  had  their 
interest  at  heart  ;  she  wanted  to  do  what  was  ri^ht  for  them. 
Her  maiMJer  to  him  jnid  to  them  was  always  honey-sweet — 
in  all  externals  ;  yet  one  conld  somehow  feel  it  was  the  vel- 
vet };l()ve  that  masked  the  iron  hand  ;  not  ernel,  not  harsh 
even,  hnt  sjverely,  irresistibly,  nnllinchin.i;ly  crnshinj;. 
"  I'Utie,  my  dear,  K<^t.  yunv  brown  hat  at  once.  What  's 
that  ?  Ooinj;  to  rain  ?  I  did  not  ask  yon,  my  child,  for 
yof/r  opinion  on  the  weather.  My  own  snlTiees.  A  head- 
ache ?  Oh,  nonsen.se!  Headaches  are  cansed  by  want  of 
exercise.  Nothin<^  so  j;ood  for  a  touch  of  headache  as  a  nice 
brisk  walk  in  Kensinj^ton  Gardens.  Maisie,  don't  hold 
yonr  .sister's  hand  like  that  ;  it  is  imitation  sympathy  ! 
Yon  are  aidinp^  and  abetting  her  in  .settinj^  my  wishes  at 
nant;ht.  Now,  no  long  faces  !  What  /  rennire  is  clucrful 
obedience." 

A  bland,  autocratic  martinet:  smiling,  inexorable  !  Poor, 
pale  Kttie  grew  thinner  and  wanner  under  her  law  daily, 
while  Maisie's  temper,  naturally  docile,  was  being  spoiled 
before  one's  eyes  by  persistent,  needless  thwarting. 

As  .spring  came  on,  however,  I  began  to  hope  that  things 
were  really  mending.  Le  Geyt  looked  brighter;  some  of  his 
own  careless,  happy-go-lucky  self  came  back  again  at  inter- 
vals. He  told  me  once,  with  a  wistful  sigh,  that  he  thought 
of  sending  the  children  to  school  in  the  country  —  it  would 


98 


IliKl.i  W.kIc 


li 


1 


he  l)cltcr  for  tliciii,  he  saitl,  ami  would  take  a  little  work  off 
dear  Clara's  sliouUlcrs  ;  for  never  even  to  ine  was  he  ilisloyul 
to  Clara.  I  cnc()iira^;;e(l  him  in  the  idea.  He  went  on  to  .say 
that  the  Kf^''i^  dilViculty  in  the  way  was  .  .  .  Clara. 
She  was  so  conscientious  ;  .she  thought  it  htr  duty  to  look 
after  the  children  herself,  and  could  n't  bear  todele^;ate  any 
part  of  that  duty  to  others.  Mcsides,  .she  had  such  an 
excellent  opinion  of  the  Kensington  HiKh  vSchool  ! 

When  I  told  Hilda  Wade  of  this,  she  set  her  teeth  to- 
j;ether  and  answered  at  once  :  "  That  .settles  it  !  The  end 
is  very  near.  //<•  will  insist  upon  their  jj;oing,  to  save  them 
from  that  woman's  ruthless  kindness  ;  ami  s//r  will  refuse  to 
give  up  any  part  of  what  she  calls  her  duty.  /A' will  reason 
with  her;  he  will  plead  for  his  children:  s/ic  will  l)e  adamant. 
Not  angry  —  it  is  never  the  way  of  that  temperament  to  get 
angry — ^just  cahnly,  sedately,  and  insupportahly  provoking. 
When  .slie  goes  too  far,  he  will  flare  up  at  last  ;  some  taunt 
will  rouse  him  ;  the  explosion  will  come  ;  and  .  .  .  the 
children  wih  ^  to  their  Aunt  Lina,  whom  they  dote  upon. 
When  all  is  said  and  done,  it  is  the  poor  man  I  pity  !  " 

"  You  said  within  twelve  months." 

"  That  was  a  l)ow  drawn  at  a  venture.  It  may  be  a  little 
sooner  ;  it  may  be  a  little  later.  But  —  next  week  or  next 
month  —  it  is  coming  :  it  is  coming  !  " 

June  smiled  upon  us  once  more  ;  and  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  13th,  the  anniver«;ary  of  our  fir.st  lunch  together  at  the 
Le  Geyts,  I  was  up  at  ni}'  work  in  the  accident  ward  at  St. 
Nathaniel's.  "  Well,  the  ides  of  June  have  come.  Sister 
Wude  !  "  I  said,  when  I  met  her,  parodying  Caesar. 

'*  But  not  yet  gone,"  she  answered  ;  and  a  profound  sense 


/. 


^ 
M 


H 
Hi 

■n 


^^^j: 


$ 


'•".^ 


^ 


llMJ 


\\\U\a  Wade 


1 

I 


.         I 


i'' 

i^' 

\W\ 

''Mf, 

'I  '. 


of  lorLlxxliii);  Nprcad  over  her  spcakiiiK  iacc  as  site  tittered 
the  words. 

Her  ovAvlv  di^'inictctl  me.  "  Why,  I  'liiicil  iIutc  last 
iM^;lit,  "  I  nittl  ;  "  and  all  .seemed  e.xivplioiially  well." 

"  Tlieealm  iK-fote  the  storm,  ptrliapH,"  .she  murmuri'd. 

Just  at  thai  iiiomk'IiI  1  lu-.iid  a  hoy  cryinj;  in  the  street: 
"  /'<///  .Uti//  (iit:r//i' :  'ere  y*  are  ;  speshul  edishiiu  !  Slxx  k« 
iiiK  tragedy  at  tlie  We.st-eiid  !  <  »tt"ul  miiKler  !  ICrc  y'  are  ! 
Speohul  (>7,>/>r  !     l\tH  .]/,i//,  cxtiy  sptshid  '  " 

.\  weird  liL'Mior  Wioke  over  me.  1  walked  tlnwii  into 
the  .street  and  hoiivJit  a  paper.  There  it  stareil  me  in 
the  fice  on  the  midiUe  pa,i;e  ;  "  Tra^eily  ai  Cimpilen 
Ilill:  Well-known  Harrister  Mnnlers  his  Wife.  .Sensational 
Details." 

I  looked  closer  and  read.  It  was  as  I  feared.  The  Le 
(leyts  !  .\fter  1  kfl  their  honse,  the  ni>;hl  I  e fore,  hnshand 
and  wife  nui>.t  h  ive  (jnarrelied.  nodonht  over  the  tpieslion 
of  the  rhiMreii's  .sehoolin}*  ;  and  at  some  provoking;  word,  as 
it  seenu'd,  lliij^o  mnst  have  snatelud  np  a  knife  "  a  little 
ornanienlal  Norwegian  da.m'er,"  l);e  report  said.  "  wliieh 
happened  to  lie  close  by  on  the  cihiiiet  in  the  drawinj;- 
room,"  and  plnn.^ed  it  into  his  wife's  heart.  "  The  un- 
happy lady  died  instantaneonsly,  by  all  appearances,  and 
the  dastardly  crime  was  not  discovered  by  the  .servants  till 
ei^ht  o'clock  this  mornin*;.     Mr.  Le  (ieyt  is  mi.ssiiiK." 

I  rusheil  up  with  the  news  to  Nur.se  Wade,  who  was  at 
work  in  the  accident  ward.  She  turned  pale,  but  bent  over 
her  patient  and  said  nothing. 

"It  is  fearful  to  think  !  "  I  groaned  out  at  la.st  ;  "for  us 
who  know  all  —  that  poor  Lc  Oeyt  will  be  hanged  for  it  ! 
Hanged  for  attempting  to  protect  his  children  !  " 


T 


W!^f^ 


't 


I02 


Hilda  Wade 


t  ( 


He  will  )iot  l)c  haiifX^Hl,"  my  witch  answered,  with  the 
same  iiiiqucstioiiing  confidence  as  ever. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  I  asked,  astonished  once  more  at  this  bold 
prediction. 

She  went  on  bandaging  the  arm  of  the  patient  whom  she 
was  attending.  "Because  .  .  .  he  will  connnit  suicide," 
she  replied,  without  moving  a  muscle. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

vShe  stuck  a  steel  safety-pin  with  deft  fingers  into  the  roll 
of  lint.  "  When  I  have  finished  nn-  dny's  work,"  she  an- 
.swered  .slowly,  still  contimiing  the  bandage,  '  I  may  perhaps 
find  time  to  tell  you." 


he 
Id 


le 


CHAPTKR    IV 

TIN-:    I'PISODIC   OK   THIC   M.\S    WHO   WOFM)   NOT   COMMIT 

sriciDi-: 

AFTER  my  poor  friend  Le  Geyt  had  murdered  his  wife, 
ill  a  sudden  access  of  uncontrollable  anger,  under  the 
deepest  provocation,  the  police  naturally  began  to 
inquire  for  him.  It  is  a  way  they  have  ;  the  police  are  no 
respecters  of  persons  ;  neither  do  they  pry  into  the  c[uestion 
of  motives.  They  are  but  poor  casuists.  A  murder  is  for 
them  a  murder,  and  a  murderer  a  murderer  ;  it  is  not  their 
habit  to  divide  and  distingui.sh  between  case  and  case  with 
Hilda  Wade's  analytical  accuracy. 

As  soon  as  my  duties  at  St.  Nathaniel's  permitted  me,  on 
the  evening  of  the  discovery,  I  rushed  round  to  Mrs.  Mallet's, 
Le  Geyt's  sister.  I  had  been  detained  at  the  hospital  for 
some  hours,  however,  watching  a  critical  case  ;  and  by  the 
time  I  reached  Great  Stanhope  Street  I  found  Hilda  Wade, 
in  her  nurse's  dress,  there  before  me.  Sebastian,  it  seemed, 
had  given  her  leave  out  for  the  evening.  She  was  a  super- 
numerary nurse,  attached  to  his  own  observation-cots  as 
special  attendant  for  scientific  purposes,  and  she  could  gen- 
erally get  an  hour  or  so  whenever  she  required  it. 

103 


w 


T04 


Hilda  \V:ule 


Mrs.  Mallet  had  been  in  tlie  breakfast-room  with  Hilda 
before  I  arrived  ;  but  as  I  reached  the  house  she  rus  led  up- 
stairs to  wash  her  red  eyes  and  compose  herself  a  little  before 
the  strain  of  meeting  me  ;  so  I  had  the  opportunity  for  a  few 
words  alone  first  with  my  prophetic  companion. 

"  You  said  just  now  at  Nathaniel's,"  I  burst  out,  "  that 
Le  (ieyt  would  not  be  handed  :  he  would  commit  suicide. 
What  did  you  mean  by  that  ?  What  rea.son  had  you  for 
thinking  so  ?  " 

Hilda  sank  into  a  chair  by  the  open  window,  pulled  a 
flower  a))stractedly  from  the  vase  at  her  .side,  and  be<;an 
pickinq:  it  to  pieces,  floret  afier  floret,  with  twitchin<;  fingers. 
She  was  deeply  moved.  "  Well,  consider  his  family  his- 
tory," she  burst  out  at  last,  looking  up  at  me  with  her  large 
brown  eyes  as  .she  reached  the  last  petal.  *'  Heredity  counts. 
.     .     .     And  after  sucli  a  disaster  !  " 

She  said  "  disaster,"  not  "  crime  ";  I  noted  mentally  the 
reservation  implied  in  the  word. 

"  Heredity  counts,"  I  answered.  *'  Oh,  yes.  It  counts 
much.  But  what  about  Le  Geyt's  family  history?"  I 
could  not  recall  any  instance  of  suicide  among  his  forbears. 

"  Well  —  his  mother's  father  was  General  Fa.skally,  you 
know,"  she  replied,  after  a  pause,  in  her  strange,  oblique 
manner.  "  Mr.  Le  Geyt  is  General  Faskally's  eldest  grand- 
son." 

'*  Exactly,"  I  broke  in,  with  a  man's  desire  for  solid  fact 
in  place  of  vague  intuition.  *'  But  I  fail  to  .see  quite  what 
that  has  to  do  with  it." 

**  The  General  was  killed  in  India  during  the  Mutiny." 

"  I  remember,  of  course  —  killed,  bravely  fighting." 

"  Yes  ;  but  it  was  on  a  forlorn  hope,  for  which  he  volun- 


Man  who  would  not  Commit  Suicide     105 


i 


tecred,  ami  in  the  course  of  which  he  is  said  to  have  \valke<l 

straiglit  into  an  ahuost  obvious  ainimscade  of  the  enemy's." 

"  Now,  my  dear  Miss  Wade  " — I  always  dropped  tlie  title 


"  KH.LED,    HRAVKI.Y    FKIHTINO,' 

of  "  Nurse,"  b}'^  request,  when  once  we  were  well  clear  of 
Nathaniel's, — "  I  have  every  confidence,  you  are  aware,  in 
your  memory  and  your  insight;  but  I  do  confess  I  fail  to  see 
what  bearing  this  incident  can  have  on  poor  Hugo's  chances 
of  being  hanged  or  committing  suicide." 


io6 


Hilda  Wade 


S*i 


I 


I  ii 


II' 


\ 


,!-! 


vSliL*  pic'kctl  a  second  flower,  and  once  more  pulled  out  petal 
after  petal.  As  slie  re.iclied  the  last  a,i;aiii,  she  answered, 
slowly:  "  Vou  nuisl  h.ive  for^ott'jn  the  circumstances.  It 
was  no  mere  accident,  (ieneral  Kaskally  had  made  a  sc-ri- 
ous  strategical  l)lunder  at  Jhunsi.  He  had  .sacrificed  the 
lives  of  his  sul)ordinates  needlessly.  He  could  not  l)ear  to 
face  the  survivors.  In  the  course  of  the  retreat,  he  volun- 
teered to  ^o  on  this  forlorn  hope,  which  mij^ht  equally  well 
have  been  led  by  an  officer  of  lower  rank  ;  and  he  was  per- 
mitted to  do  so  by  Sir  Colin  in  conuuand,  as  a  means  of  re- 
trieving; his  lo.st  military  character.  He  carried  his  point, 
but  he  carried  it  recklessly,  taking;  care  to  be  shot  through 
the  heart  himself  in  the  first  onslaught.  That  was  virtual 
.suicide  —  honourable  suicide  to  avoid  disgrace,  at  a  moment 
of  supreme  remorse  and  horror." 

"  Youare  right,"  I  adniitted,after  a  minute's  consideration. 
"  I  see  it  now  —  though  I  should  never  have  thought  of  it." 

"  That  is  the  use  of  being  a  woman,"  she  answered. 

I  waited  a  second  once  more,  and  mused.  "  Still,  that  is 
only  one  doubtful  case,"  I  objected. 

"There  was  another,  you  must  remember:  his  uncle 
Alfred." 

"  Alfred  Le  Geyt  ?  " 

'*  No  ;  //c  died  in  his  bed,  quietly.     Alfred  Faskally." 

"  What  a  memory  you  have  !  "  I  cried,  astonished. 
"Why,  that  was  before  our  time  —  in  the  days  of  the 
Chartist  riots  !  " 

She  smiled  a  certain  curious  sibylline  smile  of  hers.  Her 
earnest  face  looked  prettier  than  ever.  "  I  told  you  I  could 
remember  many  things  that  happened  before  I  was  born," 
she  answered.     * '  T/ils  is  one  of  them. ' ' 


Mall  who  would  not  Commit  Suicide     107 


"  You  rcnicmhcr  il  <liructly  ?  " 

"  IIovv  iiiipossihlc  !  Have  I  not  often  explained  to  you 
tliat  I  am  no  di- 
viner ?  I  read  no 
l)ook  of  fate  ; 
call  no  spirits 
from  the  vasty 
deep.  I  simply 
rememl)Lr  with 
exceptional  clear- 
ness what  I  read 
and  hear.  Anil  I 
have  many  times 
heard  t  h  e  story 
about  Alfred  Fas- 
kally." 

"So   h.-.ve  I-- 
but  I  forget  it." 

"Unfortu- 
nately, I  m;^7  for- 
get. That  is  a  sort 
o  f  disease  with 
me.  .  .  . 
was  a  special  con- 
stable in  the 
Chartist  riots;  and 
being  a  very 
strong  and  power- 
ful man,  like  his 
nephew  Hugo,  he  used  his  truncheon— his  special  constable's 
bdton,  or  whatever  you  call  it  —  with  excessive  force  upon  a 


FLING    niMSELF    OVER. 


io8 


HilciaWadc 


h ' 


i 


^^ 


starveling  London  tailor  in  the  mob  near  Charing  Cross. 
The  man  was  hit  on  the  forehead — badly  hit,  so  that  he  died 
almost  immediately  of  concussion  of  the  brain.  A  woman 
rushed  out  of  the  crowd  at  once,  seized  the  dying  man,  laid 
his  head  on  her  lap,  and  shrieked  out  in  a  wildly  despairing 
voice  that  he  was  her  hu'^band,  and  the  father  of  thirteen 
children.  Alfred  FaskaUy,  who  nevtr  meant  to  kill  the 
man,  or  even  to  hurt  him,  but  who  was  laying  about  him 
roundly,  without  realisiu"^  the  terrific  force  of  his  blows,  was 
so  horrified  at  what  he  had  done  when  he  heard  the  woman's 
cry,  that  he  rushed  off  straight  to  Waterloo  IJridge  in  an 
agony  of  remorse  and — flung  himself  over.  I  le  was  drowned 
instantly." 

"  I  recall  the  vStory  now,"  I  answered  ;  "  but,  do  you 
know,  .as  it  was  told  me,  I  think  the}'  .said  the  mob  ///;vrt' 
iMskally  over  in  their  desire  for  vengeance." 

"  That  is  the  official  account,  as  told  by  the  Le  Geyts  and 
the  Faskallys  ;  they  like  to  have  it  believed  their  kinsman 
was  murdered,  not  that  he  committed  suicide.  But  my 
grandfather"  —  I  started  ;  during  the  t\velve  months  that  I 
had  been  brought  into  daily  relations  with  Hilda  Wade,  that 
was  the  first  time  I  had  heard  her  mention  any  member  of 
her  own  family,  except  once  her  mother — "  my  grandfather, 
who  knew  him  well,  and  who  was  present  in  the  crowd  at 
the  time,  assured  me  many  times  that  Alfred  Faskally  really 
jumped  over  of  his  own  accord,  noi  pursued  by  the  mob,  and 
that  his  last  horrified  words  as  he  leaped  were,  '  I  never 
meant  it  !  I  never  meant  it  ! '  However,  the  family  have 
always  had  luck  in  their  suicides.  The  jury  believed  the 
throwing-over  storj-,  and  found  a  verdict  of '  wilful  murder ' 
against  some  person  or  persons  unknown." 


i 


Man  who  would  not  Coniniit  Siiiciilc     109 


"  Luck  in  their  stiicidcs  !  What  a  curious  phrase  !  And 
you  say,  (ilauivs.     Were  there  other  cases,  then  ?  " 

"  Constructively,  yes  ;  one  of  tlie  Le  (leyts,  you  nuist 
recollect,  went  down  with  his  ship  ( jusl  like  his  luicle,  the 
General,  in  India)  when  he  niij-ht  have  (piilted  her.  It  is 
believeil  he  had  K>ven  a  mistaken  order.  Vou  remember,  of 
course  ;  he  was  navi^atin^  lieuleuMit.  Another,  Marcus, 
was  sa/(/  lo  have  shot  himself  l»y  acciilent  while  cleaning;  his 
gun — after  a  <iuatrel  with  his  wife.  lUit  you  have  heard  all 
about  it.  '  The  wrong  was  on  my  side,'  he  moaned,  you 
know,  when  they  picked  hijn  up,  dyinj;,  in  tiie  i-nm-room. 
And  one  of  the  Faskally  girls,  his  cousin,  of  whom  his  wife 
was  jealous — that  beautiful  Linda — became  a  Catholic,  and 
went  into  a  convent  at  once  on  Marcus's  death;  which,  after 
all,  in  such  cases,  is  merely  a  religious  and  moral  way  of 
committing  suicide— I  mean,  for  a  woman  who  takes  the  veil 
jttst  to  cut  herself  off  from  the  world,  and  who  has  no  voca- 
tion, as  I  hear  .she  had  not." 

She  fdled  me  with  amazement.  "  That  is  true,"  I  ex- 
claimed, "  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it.  It  shows  the 
same  temperament  in  fibre.  .  .  .  But  1  should  never 
have  thought  of  it." 

"  No?  Well,  1  believe  it  is  true,  for  all  that.  In  every 
case,  one  sees  they  choose  much  the  same  way  of  meeting  a 
rever.se,  a  blunder,  an  luipremeditated  crime.  The  brave 
way  is  to  go  through  with  it,  and  face  the  music,  letting 
what  will  come  ;  the  cowardly  way  is  to  hide  one's  head  in- 
continently in  a  river,  a  noose,  or  a  convent  cell." 

"  Le  Geyt  is  not  a  coward,"  I  interposed,  with  warmth. 

"No,  not  a  coward  —  a  manly  spirited,  great-hearted 
gentleman  —  but  still,  not  quite  of  the  bravest  type.     He 


I  lO 


Hilda  Wade 


'  .  ♦ 


( 


•i 


11 


lacks  ojic  clcinciit.  The  I,c  (ic\  ts  have  pliysical  cotirnpe  — 
ciiouj^h  and  to  si):irc'  —  but  Iheir  moral  c()iir;ij;c  fails  them  at 
a  pinch.  They  rush  into  sircide  or  its  e(|iiivalent  at  critical 
moments,  oi:t  of  pure  boyish  impulsiveness." 

A  few  minutes  later,  Mrs.  Mallet  came  in.  vShe  was  not 
broken  down  —  on  the  contrary,  she  was  calm  —  stoically, 
tragically,  j»itiably  calm  ;  with  that  ghastly  cahnness  which 
is  more  terrible  by  far  than  the  most  demonstrative  grief. 
Her  face,  though  deadly  white,  did  not  move  a  nuiscle.  Not 
a  tear  was  in  her  eyes.  ICven  her  bloodless  hands  hardly 
twitched  at  the  fol'ls  of  her  hastily  assumed  black  gown. 
vShe  clenched  them  after  a  minute  when  she  had  grasped 
mine  silently  ;  I  could  see  that  the  nails  dug  deep  into  the 
palms  in  her  painful  resolve  to  keep  herself  from  collapsing. 

Hilda  Wade,  with  infinite  sisterly  tenderness,  led  her  over 
to  a  chair  by  the  window  in  the  suuuner  twilight,  and  took 
one  quivering  hand  in  hers.  "  I  have  been  telling  Dr. 
Cumberledge,  Una,  aljout  what  I  most  fear  for  your  dear 
brother,  darling  ;  and  ...  I  think  ...  he  agrees 
with  me." 

Mrs.  Mallet  turned  to  mc,  with  hollow  eye.s,  still  preserv- 
ing her  tragic  calm.  "  I  am  afraid  of  it,  too,"  she  said,  her 
drawn  lips  tremulous.  "  Dr.  Cumberledge,  we  must  get  him 
back  !     We  must  induce  him  to  face  it  !  " 

"  And  yet,"  I  answered,  .slowly,  turning  it  over  in  my 
own  mind  ;  "he  has  run  away  at  first.  Why  .should  he  do 
that  if  he  means — to  commit  suicide  ?  "  I  hated  to  utter  the 
words  before  that  broken  soul ;  but  there  was  no  way  out  of 
it. 

Hilda  interrupted  me  with  a  quiet  suggestion.  "  How 
do  you  know  he  has  run  away  ? "  she  asked.     "  Are  you 


Mail  who  woiiKl  not  Commit  Siiiciilc     in 


not  taking  it  for  granted  lliat,  ifliL'  meant  siiicido,  lie  would 
i)lo\v  nis  brains  out  in  his  own  house  ?  Hut  surely  that 
would  not  l»u  the  I,e  (icyt  way.  They  arc  Ke«>t.lc-natured 
folk  ;  i\\v\  would  never  blow  their  brains  out  or  cut  their 
throats.  For  all  we  know,  he  may  have  made  straight  for 
W^aterloo  Ilridj;e,"  —  she  framed  her  lips  to  tlu-  unspoken 
words,  unseeti  by  Mrs.  Mallet, — "  like  his  uncle  ;\lfred." 

"  That  is  true,"  I  answered,  lip-readinjj:.  "  I  never 
thouKht  of  that  either." 

"  vSlill,  I  do  not  attach  importance  to  this  idea,"  she  went 
on.  "  I  have  some  reasc.i  for  thinking;  he  has  run  away 
.  .  .  elsewhere;  and  if  so,  our  first  task  must  be  to  entice 
him  back  aj^ain." 

"  What  are  your  reasons  ?  "  I  asked,  humbly.  Whatever 
they  might  be,  I  knew  enou^di  of  Hilda  Wade  by  this  time 
to  know  that  .she  had  probably  good  grounds  for  accepting 
them. 

"  Oh,  they  niay  wait  for  the  present,"  .she  answered. 
"  Other  things  are  more  pressing.  First,  let  Lina  tell  us 
what  .she  thinks  (<f  most  moment." 

Mrs.  Mallet  braced  herself  up  visibly  to  a  di.stressing 
effort.  "  You  have  .seen  the  body.  Dr.  Cumberledge  ?  "  she 
faltered. 

"  No,  dear  Mrs.  Mallet,  I  have  not.  I  came  straight  from 
Nathaniel's.     I  have  had  no  time  to  see  it." 

"  Dr.  Seba.stian  has  viewed  it  by  my  wish — he  has  been  so 
kind  —  and  he  will  be  present  as  repre.senting  the  family  at 
the  post-mortem.  He  notes  that  the  wound  was  inflicted 
with  a  dagger  —  a  small  ornamental  Norwegian  dagger, 
which  always  lay,  as  I  know,  on  the  little  what-not  by  the 
blue  sofa." 


I  12 


IliUlaWadc 


I  nodded  assent.     "  Kxactly  ;   I  have  seen  it  there 


ti 


« I 


It  \vas  l)hint  and  rnsty — a  mere  toy  knife — not  at  all  the 
sort  of  weapon  a  man  wonld  make  nse  of  who  desij^ned  to 
connnit  a  deliberate  nmrder.  The  crime,  if  there  7t'tis  n 
crime  (which  we  do  not  arlmit),  must  therefore  have  heen 
wholly  unpremeditated." 

I  i)()wed  my  head.     "  lH)r  us  who  knew  IIu^o  that  jj:oes 
without  .saying  " 

She  leaned  forward  eagerly.  "  Dr.  »Sel)astian  has  pointed 
out  to  me  a  line  of  defence  which  wonld  probably  succeed — 
if  we  could  oidy  induce  poor  IIu^o  to  adopt  it.  He  has  ex- 
amined the  blade  and  scabl):ird,  and  finds  that  the  daj^^^er 
fits  its  sheath  very  ti^ht,  so  that  it  can  only  be  withdrawn 
with  consideral)le  violence.  The  blade  sticks."  (I  nodded 
a^ain.)  "  It  needs  a  hard  pull  to  wrench  it  out.  .  .  .  lie 
has  also  inspected  the  woinul,  and  assures  nie  its  character 
is  such  that  it  ;;//;'///  have  been  self-inllicted."  vShe  jiau-sed 
now  and  again,  and  brous;ht  out  her  words  with  diftlculty. 
"  Self-inflicted,  he  suij^gests  ;  therefore,  that  ////.v  may  have 
happened.  It  is  admitted  —  rr///  be  admitted  —  the  servants 
overheard  it  —  we  can  make  no  reservation  there  —  a  differ- 
ence of  opinion,  an  altercation,  '..'ven,  took  place  between 
Hugo  and  Clara  that  evening" — she  started  suddenly  — 
"  why,  it  was  only  last  night — it  .seems  like  age.s — an  alter- 
cation about  the  children's  schooling.  Clara  held  .strong 
views  on  the  subject  of  the  children" — her  eyes  blinked 
hard  — "  which  Hugo  did  not  share.  We  throw  out  the  hint, 
then,  that  Clara,  during  the  course  of  the  dispute — we  nuist 
call  it  a  dispute — accidentally  took  up  this  dagger  and  toyed 
with  it.  You  know  her  habit  of  toying,  when  she  had  no 
knitting  or  needlework.     In  the  course  of  playing  with  it 


Man  who  woiiM  not  Conunit  Suiiidc     113 


(we  sUKK^''*t)  she  tried  to  pull  the  knife  otit  of  its  Mhealh  ; 
failed  :  held  it  u)>,  so.  point  upward  ;  pulled  a^ain  ;  pulled 
harder — with  a  jerk,  at  last  the  shealh  came  olV  ;  the  dan>;<-*r 
sprauK  up  ;  it  woumled  Clara  fatally.  IIuko,  kuowiuK  that 
they  had  ilisa>;recd,  knowiiiK  that  the  servants  had  heard, 
and  seeing  her  fdl  suddenly  dead  before  him,  was  seized 
with  horror  the  he  (leyt  impulsiveness  !  —  lost  his  head  ; 
rushed  out  ;  fancieil  the  accident  wouhl  he  mistaken  for 
nuu-der.  Ihil  wliv  .■*  A  <J.C.,  don't  you  km)W  !  Recently 
married  !  Most  attached  to  his  wife.  It  is  plausihle,  is  n't 
it  ?" 

"  vSo  plausible,"  I  au.swered,  looking  it  straight  in  the  face, 
"  that  ...  it  has  but  one  weak  point.  We  mi^ht  make 
a  coroner's  jury  or  eveii  a  common  jury  accept  it,  on  Sebas- 
tian's expert  evidence.  vSebastian  can  work  wonders  ;  but 
we  could  never  make " 

Hilda  Wade  finished  the  sentence  for  me  as  I  paused  : 
"  Hugo  Le  (ieyt  consent  to  advance  it." 

I  lowered  my  head.     "  Vou  have  said  it,"  I  answered. 

"  Not  for  the  children's  sake?"  Mrs.  Mallet  cried,  with 
clasped  hands. 

"  Not  for  the  children's  sake,  even,"  I  answered.  "  Con- 
.sider  for  a  moment,  Mrs.  Mallet  :  is  it  true  ?  Do  jou  your- 
self/'^//Viv  it  ?  " 

She  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair  with  a  dejected  face. 
"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  she  cried,  wearUy,  crossing;  her  hands, 
"  before  you  and  Hilda,  who  know  all,  what  need  to  prevari- 
cate ?  How  raft  I  believe  it  ?  We  understand  how  it  came 
about.     That  woman  !     That  woman  !  " 

*'  The  real  wonder  is,"  Hilda  murmured,  soothing  her 
white  hand,  "  that  he  contained  himself  so  long  !  " 

8 


\i 


III 


Hilda  W.ulo 


I'l' 


•I' 


I 


4  I         I 


"  Well,  we  all  know  IIuj^n,"  I  went  on,  ns  qittolly  an  I 
was  able  ;  "  anil,  kiiowinK  nn}^o,  wc  know  tliat  lie  niit^lit  l)c 
uracil  to  commit  tliis  wild  act  in  a  tierce  moment  <»t' in(li>;na- 
tion — ri);litcons  iiwli^nalion  on  Ik  iialf  of  his  motherless  ^i'*'^! 
under  Ireinendons  provocation,  lint  we  also  know  that, 
liavin^  uncc  conunilted  it,  he  would  never  stoop  to  disown  it 
by  n  sul)terfnj;c." 

The  heart-))roken  sister  let  her  head  drop  faintly.  *'  So 
Hilda  told  me,"  she  mnrmnred  ;  "  and  what  Hilda  says  in 


th 


1 1 


l<   ^IM 


esc  matters  is  almost  always  final." 

We  debated  the  (juestion  lor  some  minntes  more.  Then 
Mrs.  Mallet  cried  at  last:  "  At  any  rate,  he  has  lied  for  the 
moment,  ai\il  his  tli^ht  alone  hriiiKS  the  worst  suspicion  upon 
him.  That  is  our  chief  point.  We  nnist  find  out  where  he 
is  :  and  if  he  has  ^one  ri^ht  away,  we  must  hrin^  Idni  hack 
to  London." 

Where  do  you  think  he  has  taken  refu{;e  ?  " 
The  police,  Dr.  .SeWaslian  has  ascertained,  are  watchinp; 
the  radway  stations,  and  the  ports  for  the  Continent." 

"  \'ery  like  the  ])()lice  !  "  Hilda  «.'xcl;nmed,  with  more 
than  a  touch  of  contempt  in  her  voice.  "  As  if  a  clever 
man-of-the-world  like  Huj;o  I.''  Oeyt  would  run  away 
hy  rail,  or  .start  ofl'  to  the  Continent  !  Ivvery  I-jikHsIi- 
man  is  noticeable  on  the  Continent.  It  would  be  .sheer 
madness  !  " 

"  Von  think  he  has  not  ^one  there,  then  ?  "  I  cried,  deeply 
interested. 

"  Of  course  not.  That  is  the  point  I  hinted  at  just  now. 
He  has  defended  manv  persons  accused  of  nnirder,  and  he 
often  spoke  to  me  of  their  incredible  folly,  when  trying  to 
escape,  in  going  by  rail,  or  in  setting  out  from  Kugland  for 


I 


HltiMHNI 


Man  who  would  not  Cotnmit  Suiiidi*     115 


Paris.  An  l')n^;li.sliin;in,  he  n>c«l  to  say,  Is  least  «)l>si'rvcil  in 
liis  own  CDnnlry.  In  this  case,  I  iliink  I  Xv/i'.i' wlurc  Ik- lias 
gone,  ami  liow  he  \ve»it  tljere.** 

"  Wlivre.  then?" 

"ll'/iitr  conicH  \mi  ;    hoii'  lirsl,     1 1    is    a    <|Uesliun    ol 
ililerenec." 

••  Ivxphun.       We 
know  yonr  powers." 

•'  Well.  I  tike  it  .^^^^7 
for  K'''">^'-'*l  ihat  he 
killed  her  —  we  must 
not  mince  matters 
— nhont  twelve 
o'clock  ;  tor  a  Iter 
that  hour,  the  ser- 
vants told  1/  i  n  a  , 
there  was  ([uiet  in 
the  drawing-room. 
Next,  I  conjecture, 
he  went  upstairs  to 
chanj;e  his  clothes  ; 
he  could  not  k»  forth 
on  the  world  in  an 
eveninjj^  suit  ;  and 
the  housemaiil  says 
his  black  coat  and 
trousers  were  lyinj; 
as  usual  on  a  chair 

in  his  dressin<?-room  —  which  shows  at  least  that  he  was  not 
unduly  flurried.  After  that,  he  put  on  another  suit,  no 
doubt  —  what  suit  I  hope  the  police  will  not  discover  too 


IIK   \V<M1.1)   (IKI.MM.V    (Ml    KID    f)K   THAT. 


ii6 


IliUhi  \V:k1c 


soon  ;  for  I  suppose  you  must  just  accept  the  situation  that 
we  are  conspirinj;  to  defeat  the  ends  of  justice." 

"No,  no!"  Mrs.  Mallet  cried.  "To  hrini;  him  Inick 
voluntarily,  that  he  may  face  his  trial  like  a  man  !   ' 

"  Yes,  dear.  That  is  quite  ri^ht.  However,  the  next 
tiling,  of  course,  would  he  that  he  would  shave  in  whole  or 
in  part.  His  big  black  beard  was  so  very  conspicuous  ;  he 
would  certainly  get  rid  of  that  before  attempting  lo  escajK'. 
The  .servants  being  in  bed,  he  was  not  pressed  for  time  ;  he 
had  the  whole  night  before  him.  So,  of  course,  he  .shaved. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  police,  you  may  be  .sure,  will  circu- 
late his  photograph  —  we  nui.st  not  shirk  these  points  " —  for 
Mrs.  Mallet  wincfd  again — "  will  circulate  his  photograph, 
heard  and  all ;  and  that  will  really  be  one  of  our  great  safe- 
guards ;  for  the  bushy  beard  so  ma.sks  the  face  that,  without 
it,  Hugo  would  be  scarcely  recognisa])le.  I  conclude,  there- 
fore, that  he  must  have  .shorn  hims^jlf  b'-fore  leaving  home  ; 
though  naturally  I  did  not  make  the  pol.ce  a  present  of  the 
hint  by  getting  Una  to  ask  any  questions  in  that  direction 
of  the  housemaid." 

"  You  are  probably  right,"  I  answered.  "  But  would  he 
have  a  razor  ?  " 

"  I  was  coming  to  that.  No  ;  certainly  he  would  not. 
He  had  not  .shaved  for  years.  And  they  kept  no  men- 
servants  ;  which  makes  it  difficult  for  him  to  borrow  one 
from  a  .sleeping  man.  So  what  he  would  do  would  doubtless 
be  to  cut  off  his  beard,  or  part  of  it,  quite  close,  with  a  pair 
of  scissors,  and  then  get  himself  properly  shaved  next  morn- 
ing in  the  first  country  town  he  came  to." 

"  The  first  country  town  ?  " 

"  Certainly.     That  leads  up  to  the  next  point.     We  must 


I 


Man  who  would  not  Commit  Suicide     117 


try  to  be  cool  niul  collected."  She  was  ciuiveriii^  with  sup- 
pressed eiiiotioti  herself,  as  she  said  it,  hut  her  soothin.!;  hand 
still  lay  on  Mrs.  Mallet's.  "  The  next  thing  is  —  he  would 
leave  London." 

"  But  not  by  rail,  you  say  ?  " 

"  He  is  an  intelligent  man,  and  in  the  cotir.se  of  defending 
others  has  thought  al)out  this  matter.  Why  expose  himself 
to  the  needless  risk  and  ob.servation  of  a  railway  station  ? 
No  ;  I  saw  at  once  what  he  would  do.  Heyond  cloid)t,  he 
would  cycle.  He  always  wondered  it  was  not  done  oftener, 
under  similar  circumstances." 

"  lUit  has  his  bicycle  gone  ?  " 

"  lyitia  looked.  It  has  not.  I  should  have  expected  as 
nuich.  I  lold  her  to  note  that  point  very  luiobtru.sively,  .so 
as  to  a'  oid  giving  the  police  the  ciue.  She  saw  the  nuichine 
in  the  outer  hall  as  usual." 

*'  He  is  too  good  a  criminal  lawyer  to  have  dreamt  of  tak- 
ing his  own,"  Mrs.  Mallet  interpo.sed,  with  another  effort. 

"  But  where  could  he  have  hired  or  bought  one  at  that 
time  of  night  ?  "  I  exclaimed. 

"Nowhere  —  without  exciting  the  gravest  suspicion. 
Therefore,  I  conclude,  he  stopped  in  London  for  the  night, 
sleepuig  at  an  hotel,  without  luggage,  and  paying  for  his 
room  in  advance.  It  is  frequently  done,  and  if  he  arrived 
late,  very  little  notice  would  be  taken  of  him.  Big  hotels 
about  the  Strand,  I  am  told,  have  always  a  dozen  such  casual 
bachelor  guests  every  evening." 

"And  then?" 

"  And  then,  this  morjiing  he  would  buy  a  new  bicycle  — 
a  different  make  from  his  own,  at  the  nearest  shop;  would 
rig  himself  out,  at  some  ready-made  tailor's,  with  a  fresh 


1!' 


ii8 


Hilda  Wade 


11  i\<  ' 


tourist  suit  —  probably  ati  ostLMitatioiisly  tweedy  bicycling 
suit  ;  and,  with  tliat  in  his  luggage-carrier,  would  make 
straight  oil  his  machine  for  the  country.  He  could  change 
in  some  copse,   and   bury   his  own   clothes,    avoiding  the 


•«f 


"  HE  COULD  CHANGE   IN   SOME  COPSE. 

blunders  he  has  seen  in  otheis.  Perhaps  he  might  ride  for 
the  first  twenty  or  thirty  miles  out  of  London  to  some  minor 
side-station,  and  then  go  on  by  train  towards  his  destination, 
quitting  the  rail  again  at  some  unimportant  point  where  the 


I      r 


U^J Ui-liUl.. 


Man  who  would  not  Commit  Suicide     119 


cling 

nake 

aiige 

the 


m 


main  west  road  crosses  the  Great  Western  or  the  Soutli- 
Western  Hue." 
.      "  Great  Western  or  South- Western  ?     Why  tliose  two  in 
particular  ?     Tlien,    you    have   settled   in    your  own   mind 
which  direction  he  has  taken  ?  " 

"  Pretty  well.  I  judge  by  analogy.  Lina,  your  brother 
was  brought  up  in  the  West  Country,  was  he  not  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mallet  gave  a  weary  nod.  "In  North  Devon,"  she 
answered;  "on  the  wild  stretch  of  moor  about  llarlland 
and  Clovelly." 

Hilda  W^ade  .seemed  to  collect  herself.  "  Now,  Mr.  Le 
Geyt  is  essentially  a  Celt  — a  Celt  in  temperament,"  she 
went  on  ;  "  he  comes  by  origin  and  ancestry  from  a  rough, 
heather-clad  country ;  he  belongs  to  the  moorland.  In  other 
words,  his  type  is  the  mountaineer's.  But  a  mountaineer'.s 
instinct  in  similar  circumstances  is — what?  Why,  to  fly 
.straight  to  his  native  mountains.  In  an  agony  of  terror,  in 
an  access  of  despair,  when  all  else  fails,  he  .strikes  a  l)ee-line 
for  the  hills  he  loves  ;  rationally  or  irrationally,  he  .seems  to 
think  he  can  hide  there.  Hugo  Le  Geyt,  with  his  frank 
boyi.sh  nature,  his  great  Devonian  frame,  is  sure  to  have  done 
.so.     I  know  his  mood.    He  has  made  for  the  West  Country  !  ' ' 

"  You  are  right,  Hilda,"  Mrs.  Mallet  exclaimed,  with 
conviction.  "  I  'm  quite  sure,  from  what  I  know  of  Hugo, 
that  to  go  to  the  West  would  be  his  fir.st  impulse." 

"  And  the  Le  Geyts  are  always  governed  by  first  im- 
pulses," my  character-reader  added. 

She  was  quite  correct.  From  the  time  we  two  were  at 
Oxford  together— I  as  an  undergraduate,  he  as  a  don-  -I  had 
always  noticed  that  marked  trait  in  my  dear  old  friend's 
temperament. 


1 1 


'1 


1 20 


Hilda  Wade 


ll  i, 


h  ■\ 


in 


I 


I    1 


r   1 


I 


'9  'i 


Aftu.'  a  short  pause,  Hilda  broke  the  silence  aj;ain.     "  The 
sea  agri'ii  ;  the  sea  !     The  Le  Gejts  love  the  water.     Was 
there  any  place  on  the  sea  where  he  went  much  as  a  boy  — . 
any  lonely  place,  I  mean,  in  that  North  Devon  district  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mallet  reflected  a  moment.  "  Yes,  there  was  a  little 
bay  —  a  mere  gap  in  high  cliffs,  with  some  fishermen's  huts 
and  a  few  yards  of  beach  —  where  he  used  to  spend  much  of 
his  holidays.  It  was  a  weird-looking  break  in  a  grim  sea- 
wall of  dark-red  rocks,  where  the  tide  rose  high,  rolling  in 
from  the  Atlantic." 

"  The  very  thing  !     Has  he  visited  it  since  he  grew  up  ?  " 

**  To  my  knowledge,  never." 

Hilda's  voice  had  a  ring  of  certainty.  "  Then  //in/  is 
where  we  .shall  find  him,  dear  !  We  must  look  there  first. 
He  is  sure  to  revisit  just  such  a  solitary  .spot  by  the  sea 
when  trouble  overtakes  him." 

Later  in  the  evening,  as  we  were  walking  home  towards 
Nathaniel's  together,  I  asked  Hilda  why  she  had  .spoken 
throughout  with  such  unwavering  confidence.  "  Oh,  it  was 
simple  enough,"  .she  an.swered.  "  There  were  two  things 
that  helped  me  through,  which  I  did  n't  like  to  mention  in 
detail  before  Lina.  One  was  this  :  the  Le  Geyts  have  all  of 
them  an  instinctive  horror  of  the  sight  of  blood  ;  therefore, 
they  almost  never  commit  suicide  by  shooting  themselves  or 
cutting  their  throats.  Marcus,  who  shot  himself  in  the  gun- 
room, was  an  exception  to  both  rules  ;  he  never  minded 
blood  ;  he  could  cut  up  a  deer.  But  Hugo  refused  to  be  a 
doctor,  because  he  could  not  stand  the  sight  of  an  operation  ; 
and  even  as  a  sportsman  he  never  liked  to  pick  up  or  handle 
the  game  he  had  shot  himself ;  he  said  it  sickened  him.  He 
rushed  from  that  room  last  night,  I  feel  sure,  in  a  physical 


*■  \ 


Man  who  would  not  Commit  Suicide     121 


horror  at  tlic  deed  he  had  done  ;  and  by  now  he  is  as  far  as 
he  can  j;et  from  London.  The  sight  of  his  act  drove  him 
awuN  ;  not  craven  fear  of  an  arrest.  If  the  Le  Cieyts  kill 
thenuselves — a  seafaring  race  on  the  whole — their  impulse  is 
to  trust  to  water." 

"  And  the  other  thing?  " 

"  Well,  that  was  about  the  motmtaineer's  homing  instinct. 
I  have  often  noticed  it.  I  could  give  you  fifty  instances, 
only  I  did  n't  like  to  speak  of  them  before  Lina.  There  was 
Williams,  for  example,  the  Dolgelly  man  who  killed  a  game- 
keeper at  Petworth  in  a  poaching  aflray  ;  he  was  taken  on 
Cadcr  Idris,  skulking  among  rocks,  a  week  later.  Then 
there  was  that  unhappy  young  f^'low,  Mackinnon,  who  shot 
his  sweetheart  at  Leicester  ;  he  made,  straight  as  the  crow 
flies,  for  his  home  in  the  Isle  of  vSkye,  and  there  drowned 
himself  in  familiar  waters.  Lindner,  the  Tyrolese,  again, 
who  stabbed  the  American  .swindler  at  Monte  Carlo,  was 
tracked  after  a  few  days  to  his  native  place,  vSt.  Valentin,  in 
the  Zillerthal.  It  is  always  so.  Mountaineers  in  distress  fly 
to  their  mountains.  It  is  a  part  of  their  nostalgia.  I  know 
it  from  within,  too  :  if /were  in  poor  Hugo  Le  Geyt's  place, 
what  do  you  think  I  would  do?  Why,  hide  myself  at  once 
in  the  greenest  recesses  of  our  Carnarvonshire  mountains." 

"  What  an  extraordinary  insight  i'.Uo  character  you 
have  !"  I  cried.  "  You  seem  to  divine  what  everybody's 
action  will  be  under  given  circumstances." 

She  paused,  and  held  her  parasol  half  poised  in  her  hand. 
"  Character  determines  action,"  she  said,  .slowly,  at  last. 
"  That  is  the  secret  of  the  great  novelists.  They  put  them- 
selves behind  and  within  their  characters,  and  so  make  us 
feel  that  every  act  of  their  personages  is  not  only  natural  but 


122 


Hilda  Wailo 


,'  V'T 

a 

•nwi 

lili 

(»"    ''. 

I'lii 

'- 

H^;  i 

I'^L 

wi 

'-'4 

II  ^' 

1 

m., 

9 

n 

j      il 

ll  1 

V' 

■Tj 

even — ^ivcMi  the  coiulitioiis  -iiievital)!;;.  \Vc  recognise  that 
their  story  is  the  sole  h)gical  ontconie  of  the  interaction  of 
their  dramalis  pcisomc.  Now,  /am  not  a  great  novehst  ;  I 
cannot  create  and  imagine  characters  and  sitnations.  lUit  I 
have  sometliing  of  the  novelist's  gift  ;  I  apply  the  same 
method  to  the  real  life  of  the  people  around  me.  I  try  to 
throw  myself  into  the  person  of  others,  anil  to  feel  how  their 
character  will  compel  them  to  act  in  each  set  of  circumstances 
to  which  tliey  may  expose  themselves." 

"  In  one  word,"  I  .said,  "  you  are  a  psychologi.st." 

"  A  psychologist,"  she  assented;  "  I  suppose  so  ;  and  the 
police  —  well,  the  police  are  not  ;  they  are  at  l)est  but  bung- 
ling materialists.  They  require  a  due.  What  need  of  a  clue 
if  you  can  interpret  character  ?  " 

So  certain  was  Hilda  Wade  of  her  conclusions,  indeed,  that 
Mrs.  Mallet  begged  me  next  day  to  take  ni}  holiday  at  once 
—  which  I  could  easily  do  —  and  go  down  to  the  little  bay  in 
the  Hartland  district  of  which  she  had  spoken,  in  search  of 
Hugo.  I  consented.  She  herself  propo.sjd  to  set  out  quietly 
for  Bideford,  where  .she  could  be  within  easy  reach  of  me,  in 
order  to  hear  of  my  success  or  failure  ;  while  Hilda  Wade, 
whose  summer  vacation  was  to  have  begun  in  two  days' 
time,  offered  to  ask  for  an  extra  day's  leave  so  as  to  accom- 
pany her.  The  broken-hearted  sister  accepted  the  offer  ; 
and,  .secrecy  being  above  all  things  necessary,  we  set  off  by 
different  routes  :  the  two  women  by  Waterloo,  myself  by 
Paddington. 

We  stopped  that  night  at  different  hotels  in  Bideford;  but 
next  morning,  Hilda  rode  out  on  her  bicycle,  and  accom- 
panied me  on  mine  for  a  mile  or  two  along  the  tortuous  way 
towards  Hartland.     "  Take  nothing  for  granted,"  she  said, 


I 


124 


Hilda  Wade 


as  we  parted;  "and  be  prepared  to  fmd  poor  IIuko  I,e 
Oeyt's  appearance  greatly  chaiiy;ed.  lie  has  eluded  the 
police  and  their  '  clnes  '  so  far;  therefore,  I  imagine  he  innst 
have  larj^ely  altered  his  dress  and  exterior." 

"  I  will  find  him,"  I  answered,  "  if  he  is  anywhere  within 
twenty  miles  of  llartland." 

She  waved  her  hand  to  me  in  farewell.  I  rode  on  after 
she  left  me  towards  the  high  promontory  in  front,  the  wildest 
and  least-visited  part  of  North  Devon.  Torrents  of  rain  had 
fallen  dnring  the  night  ;  the  .slimy  cart-rnts  and  cattle-tracks 
on  the  moor  were  hrinnning  with  water.  It  was  a  lowering 
day.  The  clouds  drifted  low.  lilack  peat-bogs  fdled  the 
hollow.s;  grey  .stone  homesteads,  lonely  and  fori)idding,  stood 
out  here  and  there  again.st  the  curved  .sky-line.  Ivven  the 
liigh  road  w^s  uneven  and  in  places  flooded,  h'or  an  hour 
I  pa.ssed  hardly  a  soul.  At  last,  near  a  crossroad  with  a 
defaced  finger-post,  I  descended  from  my  machine,  and  con- 
.sulted  my  ordnance  map,  on  which  Mrs.  Mallet  had  marked 
ominously,  with  a  cro.ss  of  red  rink,  the  exact  position  of  the 
little  fishing  hamlet  where  Hugo  used  to  spend  his  holidays. 
I  took  the  turning  which  seemed  to  me  mo.st  likely  to  lead 
to  it  ;  but  the  tracks  were  .so  confused,  and  the  run  of  the 
lanes  so  uncertain  —  let  alone  the  map  being  some  years  out 
of  date — that  I  vSoonfelt  I  had  lost  my  bearings.  By  a  little 
wayside  inn,  half  hidden  in  a  deep  combe,  with  bog  on  every 
side,  I  descended  and  a.sked  for  a  bottle  of  ginger-beer  ;  for 
the  day  was  hot  and  close,  in  .spite  of  the  packed  clouds. 
As  they  were  opening  the  bottle,  I  inquired  casually  the  way 
to  the  Red  Gap  bathing-place. 

The  landlord  gave  me  directions  which  confused  me  worse 
than  ever,  ending  at  last  with  the  concise  remark  :  "An' 


rss; 


Man  who  would  not  ('oinniil  SuiciiU'     1^5 


then,  /iir,  two  or  tlrcc  more  turns  to  the  rij;ht  an'  to  the  left 
'nil  l)riiiK  'ee  ri^lit  up  jdon^/ide  o'  lit." 

1  despaired  ot  tiiuling  the  way  by  the.sc  iinintelUgihle  sail- 


/-•a^-^./i: 


*'I    CONSUI.TKI)    MY    OKDNANCK    MAI*. 

iiiS^-orders  ;  Init  just  at  that  nioinent,  as  luck  would  have  it, 
another  cyclist  flew  past  — the  first  soul  I  had  seen  on  the 
road  that  morning.  He  was  a  man  with  the  loose-knit  air  of 
a  shop  assistant,  badly  got  up  in  a  rather  loud  and  obtrusive 
tourist  suit  of  brown  homespun,  with  baggy  knickerbockers 


126 


Hilda  Wade 


I'iM 


I 


ii 


j 


M 


UmI 


i^! 


! 


and  thiti  tlircad  stockiiij;^.  I  jiiil^;c<l  him  a  K<-'"tlemaii 
oil  llic  clic.'ip  at  si^;lu.  "  \'cry  Slylisii  ;  lliis  Suil  LNiiiiplclo, 
only  tliirt> -seven  and  Mxpoicc  !  "  Tlic  l.mdlady  j,'.l'"»»^'<-''l 
out  at  liini  witli  a  friendly  nod.  lie  turned  and  siiiiied  at 
her,  l)Ut  did  not  see  me  ;  l"<»r  I  sttuxl  in  the  shade  beliind 
the  liall'opeu  door.  He  hail  a  short  bhick  moustache  and 
a  not  unpleasin^,  careless  face.  His  features,  I  thon^lit, 
were  ))etter  than  his  ^'irnicnls. 

However,  tlie  stranger  did  not  interest  me  just  then  ;  I 
was  far  too  full  of  more  impoilant  matters.  "  Why  don't 
'ee  tniike  an'  voIIdw  tliik  ther  Ken'leiuan,  /ur  .•*  "  the  hind- 
lady  said,  pointing  one  large  red  haml  after  him.  "  Ur  do 
go  down  to  Urd  Ga^)  to  /wim  every  marnin'.  Mr.  Jan 
Smith,  o'  Oxford,  they  do  call  nn.  'ICe  can't  go  wrong  if  'ee 
do  vollow  un  to  the  Gap.  Ur'slodgin'  up  to  wold  Varmer 
Moore's,  an'  ur  's  that  vond  o'  the  /ay,  the  vishermen  do 
tell  me,  as  was  n't  never  any  gen'leman  like  un." 

I  tos.sed  off  my  ginger-beer,  jum{)ed  on  to  my  machine, 
and  followed  the  retreating  brown  back  of  Mr.  John  vSmith, 
of  Oxford  —  surely  a  most  non-connnitting  name  —  round 
sharp  corners  and  over  rutty  lanes,  tire-deep  in  nuul,  across 
the  rusty-red  moor,  till,  all  at  once,  at  a  turn,  a  gap  of 
stormy  sea  appeared  wedge-shape  between  two  shelving 
rock- walls. 

It  was  a  lonely  spot.  Rocks  henuued  it  in  ;  big  breakers 
walled  it.  The  sou'-we.ster  roared  through  the  gap.  I  rode 
down  among  loo.se  .stones  and  water-worn  channels  in  the 
solid  grit  very  carefully.  But  the  man  in  brown  had  torn 
over  the  wild  path  with  reckless  haste,  zigzagging  madly, 
and  was  now  on  the  little  three-cornered  patch  of  beach,  un- 
dressing himself  with  a  sort  of  careless  glee,  and  flinging  his 


I 


t 


Man  who  would  \U)i  Commit  SuiciiK:     i-V 

clothes  <lown  nnvhow  on  the  shiiiKl^'  l»esiilc  him.  Soinctliiii^ 
ul>()Ul  the  action  cjiukIU  my  eye.  That  movement  of  the 
nrm  !     It  wa.s  not  —  it  could  not  l>e      im,  no.  not  IInv,'o  ' 

A  very  ordinary  person;  and  I,e  (ieyt  bore  llic  stamp  of  a 
l)orn  ^;c'nllcMnan.  / 

lie  .stood  up  l)are  at  la.st.      lie 
llnng  out  his  arms,  us  it*  to  wel- 


IIK   FM'NC   our    HIS   ARMS. 


come  the  boisterous  wind  to  liis  naked  bosom.  Then, 
with  a  sudden  bur.st  of  rccoj;nition,  the  man  stood  revealed. 
We  had  bathed  together  a  hundred  times  in  London  and 
elsewhere.  The  face,  the  clad  figure,  the  dress,  all  were 
different.  But  the  body  —  the  actual  frame  and  mnke  of  the 
man  —  the  well-knit  limbs,  the  .splendid  trunk  —  no  disgui.se 


138 


Hilda  Wade 


f 


could  niter.  It  was  \x  Gcyt  himself— Wk.  powerful, 
viKorous. 

That  ill  inailc  suit,  those  l»n;»Ky  kuickcrl)ockeis,  the 
Nlouchcd  cap,  the  thiu  thread  stoekiUKH,  had  ouly  distorted 
mid  hiddeu  his  fiv;ure.  Now  that  I  saw  liini  an  he  wan,  he 
came  out  the  same  hold  aud  luauly  form  as  ever. 

He  did  uot  uotice  me.  Ho  rushed  down  with  a  rcrtain 
wild  joy  into  the  tu!l)uleut  water,  aud,  pluu^jiu^  iu  with  a 
loud  cry,  hull'eled  the  hu^je  waves  with  thoso  slnm^  rurviu^ 
anus  of  his.  The  sou'wester  was  risiu^.  \v,\c\\  hreaker  as 
it  reared  caught  hiui  oil  its  crest  aud  tuml>k<l  Iiim  ovit  like 
a  cork,  hut  like  a  cork  he  rose  a^aiu.  lie  was  swiiiiiiiiu>; 
uow,  arm  over  arm,  straight  out  .seaward.  I  saw  the  lifted 
hands  hetweeii  the  cre.st  aud  the  trough.  I'or  a  moiiu'iit  I 
hesitated  whether  1  ouuht  to  strip  and  follow  him.  Was  he 
doiug  as  so  many  ot'  o*"  his  house  had  done  —  courliiiK 
death  from  the  water  ; 

Hut  .some  strange  hand  restrained  me.  Wiio  was  I  that  I 
.should  stand  between  Hugo  Le  Cicyt  and  the  ways  of  Provi- 
dence ? 

The  r,e  Oeyts  loved  ever  the  ordeal  by  water. 

Presently,  he  turned  again.  Hcfore  he  turned,  I  had 
taken  the  opportunity  to  look  ha.stily  at  his  clothes.  Hilda 
Wade  had  .surmised  aright  once  more.  The  outer  .suit  was 
a  cheap  affair  from  a  big  ready-made  tailor's  in  vSt.  Martin's 
Lane  —  turned  out  by  the  thousand  ;  the  underclothing,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  new  and  unmarked,  but  fine  in  quality 
—  bought,  no  doubt,  at  Hideford.  An  eerie  .sense  of  doom 
stole  over  me.  I  felt  the  end  was  near.  I  withdrew 
behind  a  big  rock,  and  waited  there  un.seeu  till  Hugo  had 
landed.     He  began  to  dress  again,  without  troubling  to  dry 


ry 


I30 


Hilda  Wade 


1 


,1    :  i 


A   U 


W  f       I  i 

if;      ' ! 
H      1 ' 


r 


himself.  I  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief  Then  this  was  not 
suicide  ! 

Hy  the  time  lie  had  pulled  on  his  vest  and  drawers,  I  came 
out  suddenly  from  my  nmbusli  and  ficed  him.  A  fre.sh 
shock  awaited  me.  I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes.  It  was 
710/  Le  Geyt  —  no,  nor  anything  like  him  ! 

Nevertheless,  the  man  rose  with  a  little  cry  and  advanced, 
half  crouching,  towards  me.  "  }ou  are  not  hunting  me 
down  —  with  the  police  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  his  neck  held  low 
and  his  forehead  wrinkling. 

The  voice— the  voice  was  Le  Geyt's.  It  was  an  unspeak- 
able mystery.  "  Hugo,"  I  cried,  "  dear  Hugo  -  hunting 
you  down  ?  —  rou/i/  j'ou  imagine  it  ?  " 

He  raised  his  head,  strode  forward,  and  grasped  my  hand. 
"  Forgive  me,  Cumberledge,"  he  cried.  "  IJut  a  proscribed 
and  hounded  man!  If  you  knew  what  a  relief  it  is  to  me  to 
get  out  on  the  water  !  " 

"  You  forget  all  there?" 

"  I  forget  IT  —  the  red  horror  !  " 

"  You  meant  just  now  to  drown  yourself?  " 

"  No  !  If  I  had  meant  it  I  would  have  done  it.  .  .  . 
Hubert,  for  my  children's  sake,  I  rtv//  not  commit  suicide  !  " 

"  Then  listen  !  "  I  cried.  I  told  him  in  a  few  words  of  his 
sister's  scheme — Sebastian's  defence — the  plausibility  of  the 
explanation  —  the  whole  long  story.  He  gazed  at  me 
moodily.     Yet  it  was  not  Hugo  ! 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  shortly  ;  and  as  he  spoke  it  was //^. 
"  I  have  done  it  ;  I  have  killed  her  ;  I  will  not  owe  my  life 
to  a  falsehood." 

"  Not  for  the  children's  sake  ?  " 

He  dashed  his  hand  down  impatiently.     "  I  have  a  better 


'•-«.'!"  ■?.'  "i"'"    ■iTrilBlllH 


Man  who  would  not  Commit  Suicide     131 


• 


I " 


way    for   tlie   children.       I    will    save    tliein   still.     .     .     . 
Hubert,  you  are  not  afraid  to  speak  to  a  murderer  ?  " 

"  Dear  Hugo  —  I  know  all  ;  and  to  know  all  is  to  forgive 
all." 

He  grasped  my  hand  once  more.  "  Know  all !  "  he  cried, 
with  a  despairing  gesture.  "  Oh,  no  ;  no  one  knows  all  but 
myself;  not  even  the  children.  But  the  children  know 
much  ;  thvy  will  forgive  me.  Lina  knows  something  ;  she 
will  forgive  me.  You  know  a  little  ;  you  forgive  me.  The 
world  can  never  know.  It  will  brand  my  darlings  as  a 
murderer's  children." 

"  It  was  the  act  of  a  minute,"  I  interpo.sed.  "  And  — 
though  she  is  dead,  poor  lady,  and  one  must  .speak  no  ill  of 
her  —  we  can  at  least  gather  dimly,  for  your  children's  sake, 
how  deep  was  the  provocation." 

He  gazed  at  me  fixedly.  His  voice  was  like  lead.  "  For 
the  children's  sake  —  yes,"  he  an.swered,  as  in  a  dream.  "  It 
was  all  for  the  children  !  I  have  killed  her  —  murdered  her 
— .she  has  paid  her  penalty;  and,  poor  dead  .soul,  I  will  utter 
no  word  against  her — the  woman  I  have  murdered !  But  one 
thing  I  will  .say  :  If  omniscient  justice  sends  me  for  this  to 
eternal  punishment,  I  can  endure  it  gladly,  like  a  man, 
knowing  that  so  I  have  redeemed  my  Marian's  motherle.ss 
girls  from  a  deadly  tyranny." 

It  was  the  only  sentence  in  which  he  ever  alluded  to  her. 

I  sat  down  by  his  side  and  watched  him  closely.  Mechan- 
ically, methodically,  he  went  on  with  his  dressing.  The 
more  he  dres.sed,  the  less  could  I  believe  it  was  Hugo.  I 
had  expected  to  find  him  close-shaven  ;  so  did  the  police,  by 
their  printed  notices.  Instead  of  that,  he  had  shaved  his 
beard   and  whiskers,   but   only   trimmed  his    moustache ; 


132 


Hilda  Wade 


■ 


I  111 


Ml! 


I 


triinnied  it  quite  short,  so  as  to  reveal  the  boyish  comers  of 
the  nioiith  —  a  trick  whicli  entirely  altered  his  rugged  ex- 
pression. But  that  was  not  all  ;  what  pii/.zled  nie  most  was 
the  eyes  —  they  were  not  Hugo's.  At  first  I  could  not 
imagine  why.  IJy  degrees  the  truth  dawned  upon  me.  His 
eyebrows  were  naturally  thick  and  shaggy — great  overhang- 
ing growth,  interspersed  with  many  of  those  stiff  long  hairs 
to  which  Darwin  called  attention  in  certain  men  as  surviving 
traits  from  a  moukey-like  ancestor.  In  order  to  disguise 
himself,  Hugo  had  pulled  out  all  these  coarser  h.iirs,  leaving 
nothing  on  his  brows  but  the  soft  and  closely  pressed  coat 
of  down  which  underlies  the  longer  bristles  in  all  such  cases. 
This  had  wholly  altered  the  expression  of  the  eyes,  which 
no  longer  looked  out  keenly  from  their  cavernous  penthouse; 
but  being  deprived  of  their  relief,  had  acquired  a  much  more 
ordinary  and  less  individual  aspect.  From  a  good-natured 
but  shaggy  giant,  my  old  friend  was  transformed  by  his  shav- 
ing and  his  costume  into  a  well-fed  and  well-grown,  but  not 
very  colossal,  commercial  gentleman.  Hugo  was  scarcely 
six  feet  high,  indeed,  though  b}-  his  broad  shoulders  and 
bushy  beard  he  had  always  impressed  one  with  such  a  sense 
of  size  ;  and  now  that  the  hirsuteness  had  been  got  rid  of, 
and  the  dress  altered,  he  hardly  struck  one  as  taller  or  bigger 
than  the  average  of  his  fellows. 

We  sat  for  some  minutes  and  talked.  Le  Geyt  would  not 
speak  of  Clara  ;  and  when  I  asked  him  his  intentions,  he 
shook  his  head  moodily.  "  I  shall  act  for  the  best,"  he  said 
— "  what  of  best  is  left — to  guard  the  dear  children.  It  was 
a  terrible  price  to  pay  for  their  redemption  ;  but  it  was  the 
only  one  possible,  and,  in  a  moment  of  wrath,  I  paid  it. 
Now,  I  have  to  pay,  in  turn,  myself.     I  do  not  shirk  it." 


Man  who  would  not  Commit  Suicide    133 


I 


"  Vou  will  come  i)ack  to  Loiiilon,  Uicn,  and  stand  your 
trial  ?  "  I  asked,  eagerly. 

"  Come  back  to  London  ?  "  he  cried,  vvith  a  face  of  white 
panic.  Hitherto  he  had  seemed  to  me  rather  relieved  in  ex- 
pression than  otherwise  ;  his  countenance  had  lost  its  worn 
and  anxious  look  ;  he  was  no  lonj^er  watching  each  moment 
over  his  children's  safety.  "Comeback  .  .  .  to  London 
.  .  .  and  face  my  trial  !  Why,  did  you  think,  Hubert, 
't  was  the  court  or  the  hanging  I  was  shirking?  No,  no  ; 
not  that  ;  but  IT  —  the  red  horror  !  I  nuist  get  away  from 
//  to  the  sea — to  the  water — to  wash  away  the  .stain—  as  far 
from  //  —  that  red  pool  —  as  possible  !  " 

I  answered  nothing.  I  left  him  to  face  his  own  remorse 
in  silence. 

At  last  he  rose  to  go,  and  held  one  foot  undecided  on  his 
bicycle. 

"  I  leave  myself  in  Heaven's  hands,"  he  said,  as  he 
lingered.  "  //  will  requite.  .  .  .  The  ordeal  is  by 
water. ' ' 

"  vSo  I  judged,"  I  answered. 

"  Tell  lyina  this  from  me,"  he  went  on,  still  loitering  : 
"  that  if  she  will  trust  me,  I  will  .strive  to  do  the  best  that 
remains  for  my  darlings.  I  will  do  it.  Heaven  helping. 
She  will  know  what,  to-morrow." 

He  mounted  his  machine  and  .sailed  off.  My  eyes  followed 
him  up  the  path  with  sad  forebodings. 

All  day  long  I  loitered  aljout  the  Gap.  It  consisted  of  two 
bays — the  one  I  had  already  seen,  and  another,  divided  from 
it  by  a  saw-edge  of  rock.  In  the  further  cove  crouched  a  few 
low  .stone  cottages.  A  broad-bottomed  sailing  boat  lay 
there,  pulled  up  high  on  the  beach.     About  three  o'clock,  as 


I 


134 


Hilda  Wade 


I 


I 


Mil 


km 


!     I 


I  sat  and  watched,  two  men  began  to  launch  it.  Tlie  sea  ran 
high  ;  tide  coming  in  ;  the  sou'-vvester  still  increasing  in 
force  to  a  gale  ;  at  the  signal-staff  on  the  cliff,  the  danger- 
cone  was  hoisted.  White  spraj'  danced  in  air.  Hig  black 
clouds  rolled  up  seething  from  windward  ;  low  thunder  rum- 
bling ;  a  storm  threatened. 

One  of  the  men  was  Le  Geyt,  the  other  a  fisherman. 

He  jumped  in,  and  put  off  through  the  .surf  with  an  air  of 
triumph.  He  was  a  .splendid  sailor.  His  boat  leapt  through 
the  breakers  and  flew  before  the  wind  with  a  mere  rag  of 
canvas.  "  Dangerous  weather  to  be  out  !  "  I  exclaimed  to 
the  fisherman,  who  .stood  with  hands  buried  in  his  pocket.s, 
watching  him. 

"  Ay  that  ur  be,  zur  !  "  the  man  answered.  "  Doan't  like 
the  look  o'  ut.  But  thik  there  gen'leman,  'ee  's  one  o'  Ox- 
ford, 'ee  do  tell  me  ;  and  they  'm  a  main  venturesome  lot, 
they  college  volk.  'Ke  's  off  by  'isself  droo  the  starm,  all  so 
var  as  Lundy  !  " 

"  Will  he  reach  it  ?  "  I  asked,  anxiously,  having  my  own 
idea  on  the  subject. 

"Doan't  seem  like  ut,  zur,  do  ut  ?  Ur  must,  an'  ur 
must  n't,  an'  yit  again  ur  must.  Powerful  'ard  place  ur  be 
to  maake  in  a  starm,  to  be  zure,  Lundy.  Zaid  the  Lord 
'ould  dezide.  But  ur  'ould  n't  be  warned,  ur  'ould  n't ;  an' 
voolhardy  volk,  as  the  zayin'  is,  must  go  their  ow^n  voolhardy 
waay  to  perdition  !  " 

It  was  the  last  I  saw  of  Le  Geyt  alive.  Next  morning  the 
lifeless  body  of  **  the  man  who  was  wanted  for  the  Campden 
Hill  mystery"  was  cast  up  by  the  waves  on  the  shore  of 
LundJ^     The  Lord  had  decided. 

Hugo  had  not  miscalculated.     "  Luck  in  their  suicides," 


•36 


Hilda  Wade 


I 


Hilda  Wade  said  ;  and  strange  to  say,  the  luck  of  the  Le 
(ieyts  stood  him  in  j^ood  stead  still.  Hy  a  miracle  of  fate, 
his  children  were  not  branded  as  a  murderer's  daughters. 
Sebastian  j;ave  jvidence  at  the  inquest  en  the  wife's  body  : 
"  Self-inflicted — a  recoil — accidental — I  am  sn/i  of  it."  His 
speciali.st  knowledge — his  a.s.sertive  certainty,  combined  with 
that  arrogant,  masteriul  manner  of  his,  and  his  keen,  eagle 
eye,  overbore  the  jury.  Awed  by  the  great  man's  look,  they 
brought  in  u  submissive  verdict  of  "  I )eath  by  misadventure. ' ' 
The  coroner  thought  it  a  most  proper  finding.  Mrs.  Mallet 
had  made  the  most  of  the  innate  Le  (ic^t  horror  of  blood. 
The  newspapers  charitably  surmised  that  the  uidiappy  hu.s- 
band,  crazed  by  the  instantaneous  unexpectedness  of  his 
loss,  had  wandered  away  like  a  madman  to  the  scenes  of 
his  childhood,  and  had  there  been  drowned  by  accident 
while  trying  to  cross  a  stormy  sea  to  Lundy,  under  some 
wild  impression  that  he  would  find  his  dead  wife  alive  on  the 
island.  Nobody  whispered  murder.  Ivverybody  dwelt  on 
the  utter  absence  of  motive  —  a  model  husband  ! — such  a 
charming  young  wife,  and  such  a  devoted  stepmother.  We 
three  alone  knew  —  we  three,  and  the  children. 

On  the  day  when  the  jury  brought  in  their  verdict  at  the 
adjourned  inquest  on  Mrs.  Le  Geyt,  Hilda  Wade  stood  in 
the  room,  trembling  and  white-faced,  awaiting  their  decision. 
When  the  foreman  uttered  the  words,  "  Death  by  misad- 
venture," she  burst  into  tears  of  relief.  "  He  did  well  !  " 
she  cried  to  me,  passionately.  "  He  did  well,  that  poor 
father!  He  placed  his  life  in  the  hands  of  his  Maker,  asking 
only  for  mercy  to  his  innocent  children.  And  mercy  has 
been  shown  to  him  and  to  them.  Pie  was  taken  gently  in 
the  way  he  wished.     It  would  have  broken  my  heart  for 


lialmmm 


Man  who  would  not  Commit  Suicide    i;,; 

those  two  poor  girls  if  tlie  verdict  had  gone  otherwise.  He 
knew  how  terrible  a  lot  it  is  to  be  called  a  imirderer's 
daughter." 

I  did  rot  reali.se  at  the  time  with  what  profound  depth  of 
personal  feeling  she  said  it. 


M 


r 


!l     ■ 


I      II 


i 


9 


CIIAl'Tl«:k    V 


TIIK    I'Pl.SODl-:   <)!•    Till'    NKHDUK   THAT    DID    NOT    MATCH 


Si-:nAs 
as  I 


lUiASTIAN  is  a  great  man,"  I  said  to  Hilda  Wade, 
sat  one  afternoon  over  a  cup  of  tea  she  liad 
brewed  for  nie  in  her  own  little  sitting-room.  It  is 
one  of  the  alleviations  of  an  hospital  doctor's  lot  that  he  may 
drink  tea  now  and  again  with  the  Sister  of  his  ward. 
"  Whatever  else  you  choose  to  think  of  him,  you  must 
admit  he  is  a  very  great  man." 

I  admired  our  famous  Profes.sor,  and  I  admired  Hilda 
Wade  :  't  was  a  matter  of  regret  to  me  that  my  two  admira- 
tions did  not  seem  in  return  si  fficiently  to  admire  one  an- 
other. "  Oh,  yes,"  Hilda  answered,  pouring  out  my  second 
cup  ;  "he  is  a  very  great  man.  I  never  denied  that.  The 
greatest  man,  on  the  whole,  I  think,  that  I  have  ever  come 
across." 

"  And  he  has  done  splendid  work  for  humanity,"  I  went 
on,  growing  enthusiastic. 

"  Splendid  work  !  Yes,  splendid  !  (Two  lumps,  I  be- 
lieve ?)  He  has  done  more,  I  admit,  for  medical  science 
than  any  other  man  I  ever  met." 

I  gazed  at  her  with  a  curious  glance.     *'  Then  why,  dear 

138 


Mi 


The  Needle  that  <\u\  \u  \  Mateh        \M) 


lady,  do  you  keep  telling  mc  he  is  cruel  ?  "  I  inquired,  tonHt- 
iii^^  my  fcL't  oil  the  fender.     "  It  seems  coiilradiclory." 

She  prisscd  me  the  inufTitis,  and  smiled  her  restrained 
smile. 

"  Does  the  de.sire  to  do  good  to  Immanity  in  itself  imply  a 
benevolent  disposition  ?  "  .she  answered,  ohli(|uely. 

"  Xow  you  are  talking  in  paradox.  Surely,  if  a  man  woiks 
all  his  life  long  for  the  good  of  mankind,  that  shows  he  is 
devoured  by  sympathy  for  his  species." 

"  And  when  your  friend  Mr.  Hates  works  all  his  life  long 
at  ob.serving  and  classifying  lady-birds,  I  suppo.se  that  shows 
he  is  devoured  by  .sympathy  for  the  race  of  beetles  !  " 

I  laughed  at  her  comical  face,  she  looked  at  me  so  (juiz/i- 
cally.  "  liut  then,"  I  objected,  "  the  cases  are  not  parallel. 
Hates  kills  and  collects  his  lady-birds  ;  vSebastian  cures  and 
benefits  humanity." 

Hilda  smiled  her  wi:  e  smile  once  more,  and  fingered  her 
apron.  "  Are  the  cases  so  different  as  you  su[)pose  ?  "  she 
went  on,  with  hercpiick  glance.  "  Is  it  not  naitly  accident  ? 
A  man  of  science,  you  see,  early  in  life,  t  .kes  uj),  half  by 
chance,  this,  that,  or  the  other  particular  form  of  study. 
But  what  the  study  is  in  it.self,  I  r..:ic)',  does  not  greatly 
matter  ;  do  not  mere  circumst  'ices  as  often  as  not  determine 
it  ?  Surely  it  is  the  temperament,  on  the  whole,  that  tells  : 
the  tt.iiperament  that  is  or  is  not  scientific," 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?     You  arc  so  enigmatic  !  " 

"  Well,  in  a  family  of  the  scientific  temperament,  it  seems 
tome,  one  brother  may  happen  to  go  in  for  l)Ullerflii'S — may 
he  not?  —  and  another  for  geology,  or  for  submarine  tele- 
graphs. Now,  the  man  who  happens  to  take  up  bnlterflies 
does  not  make  a  fortune  out  of  his  hobby — ihere  is  no  money 


i.|o 


Hilda  \V:ulc 


I 


!•      :| 


I 


:i  J 


1 1- 


ill  buttcrnics  ;  so  wo  say,  accoKliiiy^ly.  ho  Is  an  unpractical 
person,  \vln)  cares  noll'inj;  for  l>nsincss,  and  vvlio  is  only 
happy  when  lie  is  out  in  llio  fitltls  willi  a  net,  chasing  em- 
perors and  torloiseshells.  linl  the  man  who  liappens  to 
fancy  sui)marino  telegraphy  most  likely  invents  a  lot  of  now 


:;^^r 


"  AN    I'NPR  \C1I(\1.    I'KKSDN." 

improvements,  takes  out  dozens  of  patents,  finds  money  flow 
in  upon  him  as  he  sits  in  his  study,  and  becomes  at  last  a 
peer  and  a  millionaire  ;  so  then  we  say,  What  a  sjilendid 
business  head  he  has  got,  to  be  sure,  and  how  immensely  he 
differs  from  his  poor  wool-(;atherinp;^  brother,  the  entomolo- 
gist, who  can  only  invent  new  ways  of  hatching?  out  wire- 
worms  !  Yet  all  may  really  depend  on  the  first  chance 
direction  which  led  one  brother  as  a  boy  to  buy  a  butterfly 
net,  and  sent  the  other  into  the  school  laboratory  to  dabble 
with  an  electric  wheel  and  a  cheap  battery." 

"  Then   you   mean   to  say   it   is  chance  that  has  made 
Sebastian?" 


The  Nccillc  th.il  (lid  not  M.itdi        i  p 


id 


IliM.i  shook  licr  pretty  Ijc.kI.  "  Hv  no  i  cans.  Don't  be 
HO  Htupid.  W'c  ))otli  know  Suhastian  has  n  wonderful  brain. 
Whatever  was  the  work  he  undertook  with  that  brain  in 
science,  he  would  carry  it  out  consunuiiatel> ,  He  is  a  born 
thinker.  It  is  like  tiiis,  don't  you  know."  She  lrie<l  to 
arrange  her  thoughts.  "  The  partioular  br.inoh  of  science 
to  which  Mr.  Iliratn  Maxim's  niind  happens  to  have  l)een 
directed  was  the  making  of  mathine-Kuns— and  he  slays  his 
thousands.  The  particular  branch  to  which  Sc))astian's 
mind  happens  to  have  been  ilirected  was  medicine  —  and  he 
cures  as  many  as  Mr  Maxim  kills.  It  is  a  turn  of  the  hand 
that  makes  all  the  difTirence." 

"  I  see,"  I  said.  "  The  aim  of  medicine  happens  to  l)e  a 
benevolent  one." 

"  Quite  so;  that  's  just  what  1  mean.  The  aim  is  benevo- 
lent; and  vSebastiaii  pursues  that  aim  with  the  single-mimkd 
energy  of  a  lofty,  gifted,  and  devoted  nature— but  not  a  good 
one." 

*'  Not  good?" 

"  Oh,  no.  To  l)u  quite  frank,  he  seems  to  me  to  pursue  it 
ruthlessly,  cruelly,  uiiscrupulou.sly.  He  is  a  man  of  high 
ideals,  but  without  principle.  In  that  respect  he  reminds 
one  of  the  great  s])iritsof  the  Italian  Renai.s.sance — Henvenuto 
Cellini  and  so  forth — men  who  could  pore  for  hours  with  con- 
scientious arti.stic  care  over  the  detail  of  a  hem  in  a  scidptured 
robe,  yet  c(^uld  steal  out  in  the  midst  of  their  disinterested 
toil  to  plunge  a  knife  in  the  back  of  a  rival." 

"  Sebastian  would  not  do  that,"  I  cried.  "  He  is  wholly 
free  from  the  mean  .spirit  of  jealousy." 

"  No,  Sebastian  would  not  do  that.  You  are  quite  right 
there  ;  there  is  no  tinge  of  meanness  in  the  man's  nature. 


l\2 


lIiM.i  Wailc 


I 


lie  likes  to  Itc  first  ill  tlu*  field  ;  Ixit  lie  would  aci  laiiii  witli 
tIeliKlil  inniluT  iiian's  .Hi'ieiililic  Irimiiph  -  if  niiollur  aiilici- 
pated  liiiii;  for  would  it  not  mean  a  triuiiipli  for  universal 
science  ?  and  is  not  the  advaiuviticnt  of  science  Sebastian's 
reliv'.ion  *  Hut  .  .  .  lie  woul  I  do  alniost  as  niudi,  or 
more.  lie  would  stab  a  ni.ui  without  remorse,  if  he  thought 
that  l>y  .stabbing!;  him  he  could  advance  knowledj;e." 

I  recognised  at  once  the  truth  of  her  diagnosis.  "  Xurse 
Watle,"  I  cried,  "  you  are  a  wondcrlnl  woman  !  F  believe 
you  are  rij;ht  ;  but      how  di<l  you  come  to  think  of  it  ?  " 

A  cloud  passu!  over  her  brow.  "  I  have  reason  to  know 
it,"  she  answered,  slowly.  Then  her  voice  changed. 
**  Take  another  mullin." 

I  helped  myself  and  paused.  I  laid  down  my  cup,  and 
pa/ed  at  her.  What  a  beautifid,  tender,  sympathetic  face  ! 
And  yet,  how  able!  She  stirred  the  fire  uneasily.  I  looked 
and  hesitated.  I  had  often  wondered  why  I  never  dired 
ask  IliMa  Wade  one  (jueslion  that  was  nearest  my  heart.  I 
think  it  must  have  been  because  I  respected  her  so  pro- 
foundly. The  deeper  yonr  admiration  and  ivspect  for  a 
woman,  tiie  harder  you  find  it  in  the  end  to  ask  her.  At 
last  I  n/iifosf  made  up  my  mind.  "  I  cannot  think,"  I  be- 
};an,  "  what  cmi  have  induced  a  j;irl  like  you,  with  means 
and  friends,  with  brains  and  " — I  drew  back,  then  I  plumped 
it  out — "  beauty,  to  take  to  such  a  life  as  this  —  a  life  which 
seem.s,  in  many  ways,  so  unworthy  of  you  !  " 

vShe  .stirred  tlie  fire  more  pensively  than  ever,  and  re- 
arranged the  mufTin-dish  on  the  little  vvrou^ht-iron  stand  in 
fiont  of  the  ^rate.  "  And  yet,"  she  murnuired,  looking 
down,  "  what  life  can  be  better  than  the  service  of  one's 
kind  ?    You  think  it  a  great  life  for  Sebastian  1 " 


illK    IJUIJK    Ol'KNKli,    AND    .SKUAS  I  IAN    KNIEKKU." 


143 


144 


Hilda  Wade 


W  i 


..;!  !    *! 


"  Sebastian !  lie  is  a  man.  That  is  tlifTerent;  quite  difTer- 
eiit.  liut  a  woman  !  Ivspecially  )<?//,  dear  lady,  for  whom  one 
feels  that  nothinji^  is  quite  high  enough,  (luite  pure  enough, 
(|uite  good  enough.     I  cannot  imagine  how " 

She  checked  me  with  one  wave  of  her  gracious  hand. 
Her  movements  were  always  .slow  and  dignified.  "  I  have 
a  Plan  in  my  life,"  .she  answered  earnestly,  her  eyes  meeting 
mine  with  a  sincere,  frank  gaze  ;  "  a  Plan  to  which  I  have 
resolved  to  sacrifiCL?  everything.     It  ahsorljs  my  being.     Till 

that  Plan  is  fulfilled "     I  .saw  the  tears  were  gathering 

fast  on  her  lashes.  vShe  suppressed  them  with  an  effort. 
"  Say  no  more,"  she  added,  faltering.  "  Infirm  ofpurpo.se! 
I  Tt-vV/not  listen." 

I  leant  forward  eagerly,  pressing  my  advantage.  The  air 
was  electric.  Waves  of  emotion  passed  to  and  fro,  "  But 
surely,"  I  cried,  "  you  do  not  mean  to  say " 

She  waved  me  a.side  once  more.  "  I  will  not  put  my  hand 
to  the  plough,  and  then  look  back,"  she  answered,  firmly. 
"  Dr.  Cumberledge,  .spare  mc.  I  came  to  Nathaniel's  for  a 
purpose'.  I  told  you  at  the  time  what  that  purpose  was  —  in 
part  :  to  be  near  Sebastian.  I  want  to  be  near  him  .  .  . 
for  an  object  I  have  at  heart.  Do  not  ask  me  to  reveal  it  ; 
do  not  ask  me  to  forego  it.  I  am  a  woman,  therefore  weak. 
But  I  need  your  aid.     Help  me,  instead  of  hindering  me." 

**  Hilda,"  I  cried,  leaning  forward,  with  quiverings  of  my 
heart,  "  I  will  help  you  in  whatever  waj'  you  will  allow  me. 
But  let  me  at  anj'  rate  help  you  with  the  feeling  that  I  am 
helping  one  who  means  in  time " 

At  that  moment,  as  unkindly  fate  would  have  it,  the  door 
opened,  and  Sebastian  entered. 

'*  Nurse  Wade,"  he  began,   in  his  iron  voice,  glancing 


The  Needle  that  did  not  Mateh        145 


about  him  with  stern  eyes,  "  where  arc  those  needles  I 
ordered  for  that  operation  ?  We  must  be  ready  in  time  be- 
fore Nielsen  conies.  .  .  .  Cumberledge,  I  shall  want 
you." 

The  j^olden  opportunity  had  come  and  j^one.  It  was  long 
before  I  found  a  similar  occasion  for  speaking  to  Hilda. 

Ivvery  day  after  that  '!i'.  ffjeling  deepened  upon  me  that 
Hilda  was  there  to  wat  h  SLoastian.  U7n',  I  did  not  know; 
l>ut  it  was  growing  certuiii  that  a  life-long  duel  was  in 
progress  between  these  two  —  a  duel  of  .some  .strange  and 
my.sterious  iniport. 

The  first  approach  to  a  solution  of  the  problem  which  I 
obtained  came  a  week  or  two  later.  Sel)astian  was  engaged 
ill  observing  a  case  where  certain  unusual  .symptoms  had 
suddenly  supervened.  It  was  a  case  of  some  ob.scure  alTec- 
lion  of  the  heart.  I  will  not  trouble  you  here  with  the  par- 
ticular details.  We  all  suspected  a  tendency  to  aneurism. 
Hilda  Wade  was  in  attendance,  as  she  always  was  on  vSebas- 
tian'.s  observation  cases.  VVe  crowded  round,  watching. 
The  Profes.sor  himself  leaned  over  the  cot  with  some  medi- 
cine for  external  application  in  a  basin.  He  gave  it  to  Hilda 
to  hold.  I  noticed  that  as  .she  held  it  her  fingers  trembled, 
and  that  her  eyes  were  fixed  harder  than  ever  upon  vSebas- 
tian.  He  turned  round  to  his  students.  "  Now  this,"  he 
began,  in  a  very  unconcerned  voice,  as  if  the  patient  were 
a  toad,  "  is  a  most  unwonted  turn  for  the  disease  to  take. 
It  occurs  very  seldom.  In  point  of  fact,  I  have  only  ob- 
served the  symptom  once  before  ;  and  then  it  was  fatal. 
The  patient  in  that  instance"  —  he  paused  dramaticallj — 
"  was  the  notorious  poLsoner,  Dr.  Yorke-Banneinian." 

As  he  uttered  the  words,  Hilda  Wade's  hands  trembled 

to 


146 


Hilda  Wade 


ilj. 


U' 


more  than  ever,  and  \v  th  a  little  scream  slie  let  the  basin 
fall,  breakinj;  it  into  fra^metits. 

Sebastian's  keen  ey.s  had  transfixed  her  in  a  second. 
"  How  did  \on  niana^ci  to  do  that  ?  "  he  asked,  with  quiet 
sarcasm,  but  in  a  tone  fn!l  of  meaning. 

"The  basin  was  heavy,"  Hilda  faltered.  "My  hands 
were  trembling  —  and  it  sontehow  .slipped  through  them.  I 
am  not  .  ,  .  (juile  my.self  .  .  .  not  quilL  well  this 
afternoon.      I  ouglit  not  to  have  attempted  it." 

The  Professor's  deep-set  eyts  peered  out  lik''  ffleaming 
lights  from  beneath  their  overhaiii;ing  brows.  ''  No;  you 
ougiit  not  to  have  attempted  it,"  he  aiiswered,  withering  her 
with  a  glance.  "  You  might  have  let  the  thing  fall  on  the 
patient  and  killed  him.  As  it  is,  can't  yon  see  you  have 
agitated  him  \vitli  the  Hurry  ?  Don't  stand  there  holditig 
your  breath,  woman  :  repair  your  mischief.  Get  a  cloth  and 
wi])e  it  up,  and  give  nic  the  bottle." 

With  skilful  lia.ste  he  administered  a  little  sal  volatile  and 
nux  vomica  to  the  swooning  patient  ;  while  Hilda  set  about 
remedying  the  damage.  "  That 's  better,"  vSebastian  .said, 
in  a  nlollified  tone,  when  .she  had  brought  another  ba.sin. 
There  was  a  singular  note  of  cloaked  triumph  in  his  voicf 
"  Now,  we  '11  begin  again.  ...  I  was  just  saying, 
gentlemen,  before  this  accident,  that  I  ha  I  seen  only  one 
case  of  this  peculiar  form  of  the  tendency  i)efore  :  and  that 
case  was  the  notorious" — he  kept  his  glittering  eyes  fixed 
harder  on  Hilda  than  ever — "  the  notorious  Dr.  Yorke- 
Banherman." 

/was  watching  Hilda,  too.  At  the  words,  .she  trembled 
\  iolently  all  over  once  more,  but  with  an  effort  restrained 
herself.     Their  looks  met  in  a  searching  glance.     Hfida's 


t 


i 

^ 

n* 


I4S 


Hilda  Wade 


II 

'  1 

i 
I 

!   , 

1      •  1 

! 

1 

1 

IT 


air  was  proud  and  fearless  :  in  vSebastian's,  I  fancied  I  de- 
tected, after  a  second,  just  a  tinge  of  wavering. 

"  You  remember  Yorke-Iiannernian's  case,"  he  went  on. 
*'  He  connnitted  a  murder " 

*'  Let  me  take  the  basin  !  "  I  cried,  for  I  saw  Hilda's  hands 
giving  way  a  second  time,  and  I  was  anxious  to  spare  her. 

"  No,  tliatik  you,"  she  answered  low,  but  in  a  voice  that 
was  full  of  suppressed  defiance.  "  I  will  wait  and  hear  this 
out.     I  prefer  to  stop  here." 

As  for  vSebastiiui,  he  seemed  now  not  to  notice  her,  though 
I  was  aware  all  the  time  of  a  sidelong  glance  of  his  eye, 
parrot-wise,  in  her  direction.  "  He  committed  a  murder," 
he  went  on,  "  by  means  of  aconitine  —  then  an  almost  un- 
known poison  ;  and,  after  committing  it,  his  heart  being 
already  weak,  he  was  taken  himself  with  symptoms  of 
aneurism  in  a  curious  form,  essentially  similar  to  these  ;  .so 
that  he  died  before  the  trial  —  a  lucky  escape  for  him." 

He  paused  rhetorically  once  more  ;  then  he  added  in  the 
same  tone:  **  Mental  agitation  and  the  terror  of  detection  no 
doubt  accelerated  the  fatal  result  in  that  instance.  He  died 
at  once  from  the  shock  of  the  arrest.  It  was  a  natural  con- 
clusion.    Here  we  may  hope  for  a  more  successful  issue." 

He  spoke  to  the  students,  of  course,  but  I  could  see  for  all 
that  that  he  was  keeping  his  falcon  eye  fixed  hard  on 
Hilda's  face.  I  glanced  aside  at  her.  She  never  flinched 
f.^r  a  second.  Neither  said  anything  directly  to  the  other  ; 
still,  by  their  eyes  and  mouths,  I  knew  some  strange  passage 
of  arms  had  taken  place  between  them.  Sebastian's  tone 
was  one  of  provocation,  of  defiance,  I  might  almost  say  of 
challenge.  Hilda's  air  I  took  rather  for  the  air  of  calm  and 
resolute,  but   assured,    resistance.       He   expected    her  to 


The  Needle  that  did  not  Match        149 


answer  ;  she  said  iiothinp.  Instead  of  that,  she  went  on  hold- 
ing the  basin  now  witli  fingers  that  liVulU  not  trenil)le. 
I'A'ery  nuiscle  was  strained.  Ivvery  tendon  was  strung.  I 
could  see  she  held  herself  in  with  a  will  of  iron. 

The  rest  of  the  episode  passed  off  quietly.  Sebastian,  hav- 
ing delivered  his  bolt,  began  to  think  less  of  Hilda  and 
more  of  the  patient.  He  went  on  with  his  demonstration. 
As  for  Hilda,  she  gradually  relaxed  her  muscles,  and,  with 
a  deep-drawn  breath,  resumed  her  natural  attitude.  The 
tension  was  over.  They  had  had  their  little  skirmish,  what- 
ever it  might  mean,  and  had  it  out  ;  now,  they  called  a  truce 
over  the  patient's  body. 

When  the  case  had  been  disposed  of,  and  the  students  dis- 
missed, I  went  straight  into  the  laboratory  to  get  a  few 
surgical  instruments  I  had  chanced  to  leave  there.  For  a 
miiuite  or  two,  I  mislaid  my  clinical  thermometer,  and  began 
hunting  for  it  behind  a  wooden  partition  in  the  corner  of  the 
room  by  the  place  for  washing  test-tubes.  As  I  stooped 
down,  turning  over  the  various  objects  about  the  tap  in  my 
search,  Sebastian's  voice  came  to  me.  He  had  paused  out- 
side the  door,  and  was  speaking  in  his  calm,  clear  tone,  very 
low,  to  Hilda.  "  So  nozo  we  understand  one  another.  Nurse 
Wade,"  he  said,  with  a  significant  sneer.  "  I  know  whom 
I  have  to  deal  with  !  " 

"  And  /know,  too,"  Hilda  answered,  in  a  voice  of  placid 
confidence. 

"  Yet  3'ou  are  not  afraid  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  /who  have  cause  for  fear.  The  accused  may 
tremble,  not  the  prosecutor." 

"What!     You  threaten  ?  " 

"  No  ;  1  do  not  threaten.     Not  in  words,  I  mean.     My 


'50 


Hilda  Wade 


i  ^1 


t'i 


W        'I 


I  I 

i   i 

I 


presence  here  is  in  itself  a  tlircat,  l)iit  I  make  no  other. 
You  know  now,  unfortunately,  r.7/r  I  have  come.  That 
makes  my  task  hauler.  But  I  will  //<>/  ^rjve  it  up.  1  will 
wait  and  conquer." 

vSehastian  answered  nothing.  He  .strode  into  the  labora- 
tory alone,  tall,  grim,  unhending,  and  let  himself  sink  into 
his  easy  chair,  looking;  up  with  a  sinjj^ular  and  .somewhat 
sinister  smile  at  his  bottles  of  microbes.  After  a  minute  he 
stirred  the  fire,  and  bent  his  head  forward,  brooding.  He 
held  it  between  his  hand.s,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and 
gazed  moodily  straight  before  him  into  the  glowing  caves  of 
white-hot  coal  in  the  fireplace.  That  .sinister  smile  still 
played  lambent  around  the  corners  of  his  gri/zled  moustaches. 

I  moved  noiselessly  towards  the  door,  trying  to  pass  behind 
him  unnoticed,  lint,  alert  as  ever,  his  quick  ears  detected 
me.  With  a  .sudden  .start,  he  rai.sed  his  head  and  glanced 
round.  "  What  !  you  here  ?  "  he  cried,  taken  aback.  For 
a  second  he  appeared  almo.st  to  lose  his  .self-posses.sion. 

"  I  came  for  my  clinical,"  I  an.swered,  with  an  uncon- 
cerned air.  "  I  have  somehow  managed  to  mi.slay  it  in  the 
laboratory." 

My  carefully  casual  tone  seemed  to  reassure  him.  He 
peered  about  him  with  knit  brow.s,  "  Cumberledge,"  he 
asked  at  last,  in  a  suspicious  voice,  "  did  you  hear  that 
woman  ?  " 

"  The  woman  in  93  ?     Delirious  ?  " 

"  No,  no.     Nurse  Wade?" 

"  Hear  her?  "  I  echoed,  I  must  candidly  admit  with  in- 
tent to  deceive.     "  When  she  broke  the  basin  ?  " 

His  forehead  relaxed.  "  Oh!  it  is  nothing,"  he  nuittered, 
hastily.     "  A  mere  point  of  discipline.     She  spoke  to  me  just 


1  the 


*l 


ft 


111- 


i 


152 


HiKla  VViulc 


■    * 


now,  and  I  thought  licr  tone  unhcconiinj;  in  a  snhonlinate. 
.  .  .  Like  Korah  and  his  crew,  she  takes  too  nnich  npon 
her.  .  .  .  We  nmst  get  rid  of  her,  Cnniberledge  ;  we 
must  Kt-'t  rid  of  her.     She  is  a  dangerous  woman  !  " 

"  vShe  is  the  ino.st  intelligent  nur.se  we  have  ever  had  in  the 
1/1  ace,  sir,"  I  ol>jected,  .stoutly. 

He  nodded  his  head  twice.  ' '  Intelligent— yV  voua  V accordc ; 
hut  dangerous  —  dangerous  !  " 

Then  he  turned  to  his  papers,  sorting  them  out  one  by  one 
with  a  preoccupied  face  and  twitching  fingers.  I  recognised 
that  he  desired  to  be  left  alone,  .so  I  ([uitted  the  laboratory. 

I  cannot  (juite  say  r«7/j',  but  ever  since  Hilda  Wade  first 
came  to  Nathaniel's  my  enthusiasm  for  Sebastian  had  been 
cooling  continuously.  Admiring  his  greatne.ss  .still,  I  had 
doubts  as  to  his  goodness.  That  day  I  felt  I  positively  mis- 
trusted him.  I  wondered  what  his  pa.ssage  of  arms  with 
Hilda  might  mean.  Yet,  somehow,  I  was  .shy  of  alluding  to 
it  before  her. 

One  thing,  however,  was  clear  to  me  now  —  this  great 
campaign  that  was  being  waged  between  the  nurse  and  the 
Professor  had  reference  to  the  case  of  Dr.  Yorke-Bannerman. 

For  a  time,  nothing  came  of  it  ;  the  routine  of  the  ho.spital 
went  on  as  usual.  The  patient  with  the  suspected  predispo- 
sition to  aneurism  kept  fairly  well  for  a  week  or  two,  and 
then  took  a  sudden  turn  for  the  wor.se,  presenting  at  times 
most  unwonted  symptoms.  He  died  unexpectedly.  Sebas- 
tian, who  had  watched  him  every  hour,  regarded  the  matter 
as  of  prime  importance.  "  I  'm  glad  it  happened  here,"  he 
said,  rubbing  his  hands.  "  A  grand  opportunity.  I  wanted 
to  catch  an  instance  like  this  before  that  fellow  in  Paris  had 
time  to  anticipate  me.     They  're  all  on  the  lookout.     Von 


«« 
\ 


Tlic  Ncccllc  that  did  not  Match        15.^ 


vStralilciKlorlV,  of  \'icima,  lias  hccn  waiting;  tor  just  sucli  u 
palifiit  for  years.  So  liavc  I.  Now  fortmic  has  favoured 
MIL*.     Kucky  for  us  he  died!     Wcshull  fuid  out  cvcrylhiu^." 

We  lield  a  post-uiorteui,  of  course,  the  couditiou  of  the 
lilood  l)eiu>;  what  we  uu)st  wished  to  observe  ;  aud  the 
autoj)sy  revealed  soiue  uuexperted  details  Ou.-  reiuarkaltie 
feature  consisted  iu  a  certain  uudescril)ed  aud  inipoverishcil 
state  of  the  contained  bodies  which  vSel)astiau,  with  his  ea^er 
zeal  for  science,  desired  his  students  to  see  aud  identify.  lie 
said  it  was  likely  to  throw  uuicl:  li^lit  on  other  ill-uuilerstood 
conditions  of  the  brain  aud  nervous  system,  as  well  as  on  the 
peculiar  faint  odour  of  the  insane,  now  .so  well  recognised  in 
all  large  asylums.  In  order  to  compare  this  abnormal  state 
with  the  aspect  of  the  healthy  circulatiu};  mediiuu,  he  pro- 
posed to  examine  a  little  good  living  blood  sidi.*  by  side  with 
the  morbid  specimen  under  the  microscoj)e.  Nurse  Wade  was 
in  attendance  in  the  laboratory,  as  usual.  The  Profes.sor, 
standing  by  the  instrument,  with  one  hand  on  the  brass  screw, 
had  got  the  diseased  drop  r.;ady  arranged  for  our  inspection 
beforehand,  and  was  gloating  over  it  himself  with  .scientific 
enthusiasm.  "  Grey  corpuscles,  you  will  observe,"  he  said, 
"  rdniost  entirely  deficient.  Red,  poor  iu  number,  and 
irregular  in  outline.  Plasma,  thin.  Nuclei,  feeble.  A 
state  of  body  which  tells  severely  against  the  due  rebuilding 
of  the  wasted  tissues.  Now  compare  with  typical  normal 
specimen."  He  removed  his  eye  from  the  microscope,  and 
wiped  a  glass  slide  with  a  clean  cloth  as  he  spoke.  "  Nurse 
Wade,  we  know  of  old  the  purity  and  vigour  of  your  circul- 
ating fluid.  You  shall  have  the  honour  of  advancing 
science  once  more.     Hold  up  your  finger." 

Hilda  held  up  her  forefinger  unhesitatingly.    She  was  used 


I 


"54 


HiKla  Wade 


k 


\ 


If 

i 


to  HI  'li  requests;  ami,  indeed,  Stdmstiau  li.ul  aiquirecl  l)y  loiij* 
ex|)  icncc  tlic  faculty  of  pinching  llie  fmj'cr-liii  so  liard,  and 
prcssinj;  the  p(»int  of  a  needle  so  dexterously  into  a  niiiior 
vessel,  that  he  could  draw  ut  oiicc  a  snirdl  drop  of  hloml 
without  the  subject  even  feeling  it. 

The  Professor  nipped  the  last  joint  hetwren  his  finger  and 
thumb  for  a  ninment  till  it  was  black  at  the  end  ;  tlun  Jic 
turned  to  the  saucer  al  his  side,  which  Hilda  herself  had 
placed  there,  and  chose  ironi  it,  catdike,  with  );teal  cklibera- 
tion  and  selective  care,  a  particular  medle.  Hilda's  eyes 
followed  hi.s  every  luovenient  ns  closely  and  as  fearlessly  as 
ever,  Sebastian's  hand  was  raised,  and  he  was  just  about 
to  pierce  the  delicate  while  skin,  when,  with  a  sudden,  quick 
scream  of  terror,  she  snatched  her  hand  away  hastily. 

The  Professor  let  the  needle  drop  in  his  aslonishment. 
"  What  did  you  do  that  for  ?  "  he  ctied.  with  an  an^ry  dart 
of  the  keen  eyes.  "  This  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  drawn 
your  blood.     Von  Xv/rrr  I  r»ould  not  hurt  you." 

Hilda's  face  had  i;rown  slranj;ely  pale.  Put  that  was  not 
all.  I  believe  I  was  the  only  person  present  who  noticed  one 
unobtrusive  piece  of  sleight-ofdiand  which  .she  hurriedly  and 
skilfully  executed.  .  When  the  needle  .slipped  f-'MU  S  stian's 
hand,  she  leant  forward  even  as  .she  screamed,  ano  cauj;hl  it, 
unobserved,  in  the  folds  of  her  apron.  Then  her  nind)le 
fingers  closed  over  it  ns  if  by  magic,  and  conveyed  it  with  a 
rapid  movement  at  once  to  her  pocket.  I  do  not  think  even 
Sebastian  himself  noticed  the  cpiick  forward  jerk  of  her  eager 
hands,  which  would  have  done  honour  to  a  conjurer.  He 
was  too  much  taken  aback  by  her  unexpected  behaviour  to 
observe  the  needle. 

Just  as  she  caught  it,  Hilda  answered  his  qu*  stion  in  a 


'  i 


Tlu'  Needle  th.it  (lid  not  Mateh        155 


somewhat  llurnctl  voice.  *'  I — I  wan  afraid,"  she  hrokc  out, 
KiiinpitiK.  "  <^ne  >;L'tH  these  little  uccesscs  of  terror  now  and 
nK  liii.  I  —  I  feel  rather  weak.  [  don't  think  I  will  volun- 
teer to  supply  any  more  nonn,>i  Jilood  this  niorninj;." 

vSel)iistian*s  acute  eycH  read  lur  throu^h,  as  so  often. 
With  a  trenchant  dart  he  >;Iaiiced  from  l)er  to  me.  I  eould 
see  he  he^ai*  to  suspect  a  confederacy.  "  That  will  tlo, '  lie 
went  on,  with  slow  deliherateness.  *'  iSrlter  so.  Nurse 
Waile,  I  don't  know  what  's  he^inninj;  to  come  over  ynii. 
You  are  losiuj;  your  nerve — which  is  fatal  in  n  nur.se.  (Mdy 
the  other  day  you  let  fall  and  hroki*  a  basin  at  .»  most  critical 
moment  ;  antl  now,  yon  scream  aloud  on  a  trilling  appre- 
hension." lie  i)aused  and  >;lanccd  around  him.  '  Mr. 
CalhiKhan,"  he  saiil,  turuin^f  to  our  tall,  red  haired  Irish 
student,  '\vonr  blood  is  j;ood  normal,  and  i.'//  aie  not  hys- 
terical." He  selected  another  needle  wilh  studious  care. 
"  (iive  me  your  fiMK^er." 

As  he  picked  out  the  needle,  I  saw  Hilda  lean  forward 
ay;rMn,  alert  and  watchful,  eyeinj;  him  with  a  pic  'cinj;  j^lance; 
but,  after  a  second's  consideration,  she  seemed  to  satisfy 
herself,  and  fell  back  without  a  word.  I  {gathered  tint  she 
was  ready  to  interfere,  had  o<v.a.->U)n  demanded.  Hut  occa- 
sion did  not  demand  ;  and  .she  held  her  peace  cjuietly. 

The  rest  of  the  examination  j)roceeded  without  a  hitch. 
F'or  a  min'Ue  or  two,  it  is  true,  I  fancied  that  vSebastian  be- 
trayed a  certain  .suppressed  ai^itation  -  -  a  trifling  lack  of  his 
accu.stomed  perspicuity  and  his  luminous  exposition.  Hut, 
after  meandering  for  a  while  throu,c:h  a  few  vap^ue  .senteiues, 
he  soon  recovered  his  wonted  calm  ;  and  as  he  went  on  with 
his  demonstration,  throwing  himself  eaj^erly  into  the  case, 
his  usual  scientific  enthu.siasm  came  back  10  him  undimin- 


f 

i 
li 


•I 


r 

It 


?  ' 


I 


'<> 


'56 


llil.la  W.ulo 


I 


i.slicil.  lie  \vaxe<l  Llo<|nciit  (after  his  fashion)  over  tiie 
"  l>eautif»il  "  contrast  between  Callaghan's  wholesome  hlcKxl, 
'*  rich  in  the  vivifying  architectonic  ^rey  corpuscles  which 
rehiiild  worn  tissttes,"  and  the  efTcte,  impoverished,  tin* 
vhaHsed  Ihiid  vvliich  stagnated  in  the  sluj^j^ish  veins  of  the 
dead  patient.  The  carriers  of  oxyj;en  had  neglected  tlieir 
proper  task  ;  the  granules  whose  <iuty  it  was  to  hrin^  ehdH)- 
rated  food  stufVs  to  supply  the  waste  of  hrain  and  nerve  and 
muscle  hn«l  forgotten  their  cunning.  The  bricklayers  of  the 
bodily  fabric  had  ^one  out  on  strike  ;  the  weary  sc^ven^ers 
had  (Kclined  to  remove  tlii'  useless  byprixlucts.  Ilis  vivid 
tongue,  his  pictiuescpie  fancy,  ran  away  with  him.  I  hatl 
never  heard  him  talk  better  or  more  inci.sively  before  ;  one 
could  feel  sure,  as  he  spoke,  that  the  arteries  of  his  own  acute 
njid  teeming  brain  at  that  moment  of  exaltation  were  by  no 
means  deficient  in  those  enerj;etic  and  hii^hly  vital  ^lohides 
on  whose  reparative  worth  he  .so  elo(|ueiitly  descanted. 
*'  vSure,  the  Professor  makes  annywan  see  ri^ht  inside  wan's 
own  vascidar  system,"  Callaghan  whi.spered  aside  to  me,  in 
unfeigned  admiration. 

The  demonstration  endeil  in  impressive  silence.  As  we 
streamed  out  of  the  laboratory,  a^low  with  his  electric  fire, 
vSebastian  held  me  back  with  a  bent  motion  of  his  shrivelled 
forefinger.  I  stayed  behind  unwillingly.  "Yes,  sir?"  I 
.said,  in  an  interrogative  voice. 

The  Professor's  eyes  were  fixed  intently  on  the  ceiling. 
His  look  was  one  of  rapt  inspiration.  I  stood  and  waited. 
"  Cund)erledge,"  he  .said  at  last,  coming  back  to  earth  with 
a  start,  **  I  .see  it  more  plaiidy  each  day  that  goes.  We 
must  get  rid  of  that  woman." 

"  Of  Nurse  Wade  ?  "  I  asked,  catching  my  breath. 


H 


The  Nccilk"  thai  did  not  M.iuh        157 


lie  roped  the  ^ri/zlcil  iiiouHtiulic,  aii<t  iiliiikid  tlic  Minkeii 
cycH.  '*  SIk-  has  lusl  iktvc,"  Ih'  went  «>ii,  "  lonl  iicrvc 
entirely.  I  Hlialt  sii^K^'Ht  tliat  hlie  lie  tiisiiiisHcd.  IlerHiid- 
(leti  failttrcM  of  stamina  are  most  einharrassiii^  at  critical 
junctures." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  I  answerc«1,  swallowing;  a  htnip  in  »ny 
tliroit.  To  say  the  truth,  I  was  beKinnin^  to  l»e  afraid  on 
Hilda's  account.  That  morning's  events  had  thoroughly 
disquieted  nie. 

lie  seeint'd  relieved  at  my  un«|Ucslioiiinv;  ac(|uiesience. 
'*  She  is  a  <lan^erons  e<l>;rd  tool;  that  s  the  tiuth  of  it,  " 
he  went  on,  still  twirling;  his  moustache  with  a  preoccupied 
air,  and  turning:  over  his  stock  of  neeilles.  "  When  she  's 
clothed  and  in  her  ti>;hl  mind,  she  is  a  valuable  acce.s.sory  — 
sharp  and  trenchant  like  a  clean,  hri^ht  lancet  ;  hut  when 
she  allows  one  of  these  cau.selcss  hy.slerical  fits  t«)  override 
her  tone,  she  plays  one  false  at  once— like  a  lancet  that  .slip.s, 
or  grows  dull  and  ru.sty."  lie  polished  one  of  the  needles 
on  a  soft  .s(|uare  of  new  chajuois-lealhcr  while  he  .spoke,  us 
if  to  give  point  and  illustration  to  his  simile. 

I  went  out  from  him,  much  perturbed.  The  Sebastian  I 
had  once  admired  and  worshipped  was  begiiniini'^  to  pass 
from  me  ;  in  his  place  I  found  a  very  complex  and  inferit)r 
creation.  My  idol  had  feet  of  clay.  I  was  loth  to  acknow- 
ledge it. 

I  .stalked  along  the  corridor  moodily  towards  my  own 
room.  As  I  ])a.s.sed  Hilda  Wade's  door,  I  .saw  it  half  ajar. 
vShe  stood  a  little  within,  and  beckoned  me  to  enter. 

I  passed  in  and  clo.sed  the  door  behind  me.  Hilda  looked 
at  me  with  trustful  eyes.  Resolute  still,  her  face  was  yet 
that  of  a  hunted  creature.     "  Thank  Heaven,  I  have  ofic 


I 


•5« 


Hilda  Wade 


I' 


I 


''  i|i 


fri'.'iul  here,  at  IcMst  !  "  she  said,  slowly  seating  herself. 
"  Voii  saw  me  catch  and  conceal  the  needle  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  saw  you." 

vShe  drew  it  forth  from  her  purse,  carefully  hut  loosely 
wrapped  up  in  a  small  ta^  of  tissue-paper.  "  Here  it  is  !  " 
.she  .said,  (lisi)layinjj:  it.     "  Now,  I  want  >f)U  to  test  it." 

"  In  a  culture  ?  "  I  a.sked  ;  for  I  guessed  her  meaning. 

vShe  nodded.     "  Yes,  to  see  what  tluil  man  has  done  to  it." 

"  What  do  you  suspect  ?" 

vShe  shrugged  her  graceful  .shoulders  half  imperceptibly. 
"  IJow  .should  I  know  ?     Anything  !  " 

I  ga/ed  at  the  needle  clo.sely.  "  What  made  you  distru.st 
it  ?  "  I  incjuired  at  last,  still  eyeing  it. 

vSlie  opened  a  drawer,  and  took  out  several  others.  "  vSee 
here,"  she  said,  handing  me  one  ;  "  //"sr  are  the  needles  I 
keep  in  auti.seplic  wool  —  the  needles  with  which  I  always 
.supply  the  Professor.  You  ob.serve  their  shape  —  the  com- 
mon surgical  patterns.  Now,  look  at  ///is  needle,  with  which 
the  Professor  was  just  going  to  j^rick  my  finger  !  You  can 
see  for  your.self  at  once  it  is  of  bluer  steel  and  of  a  different 
manufacture." 

"  That  is  quite  true,"  I  answered,  examining  it  with  my 
pocket  lens,  which  I  always  carry.  "  I  .see  the  difference. 
But  how  did  you  detect  it  ?  " 

"  From  his  face,  partly;  but  partly,  too,  from  the  needle  it- 
self. I  had  my  su.spicions,  and  I  was  watching  him  closely. 
Just  as  he  raised  the  thing  in  his  hand,  half  concealing  it, 
so,  and  showing  only  the  point,  I  caught  the  blue  gleam  of 
the  steel  as  the  light  glanced  off  it.  It  was  not  the  kind  I 
knew.  Then  I  withdrew  my  hand  at  once,  feeling  sure  he 
meant  mischief." 


The  Needle  that  lUd  not  Match        150 


"  That  was  woiulerfully  quick  of  you  !  ' 

"  (^uick  ?     Well,  yes.     Thank  IleavLii,  my  mind  works 

last  ;  my  perceptions  are  rapid.     Otlierwi.se "  she  looked 

ji^rave.  "  One  .second  more,  and  it  would  have  been  too 
late.     The  man  might  have  killed  me." 


I    HAD   MY    Srsi'ICIONS. 


"  You  think  it  is  poi.soned,  then  ?  " 

Hilda  .shook  her  head  with  confident  di.ssent.  "  Poisoned  ? 
Oh,  no.  He  is  wi.ser  now.  Fifteen  years  ago,  he  used 
poison.  But  .science  has  made  gigantic  strides  .since  then. 
He  would  not  needlessly  expose  himself  to-day  to  the  ri.sks 
of  the  poisoner." 

"  Fifteen  years  ago  he  used  poison  ?  " 

She  nodded,  with  the  air  of  one  who  knows.     "  1  am  not 


i6o 


Hilda  Wade 


speaking  at  random,"  she  answered.  "  I  say  what  I  know. 
vSonic  day  I  will  explain.  For  the  present,  it  is  enough  to 
tell  you  I  know  it." 

''  And  what  do  you  suspect  now?"  I  asked,  the  weird 
.sen.se  of  her  strange  power  deepening  on  nie  every  second. 

She  held  up  the  incriminated  needle  again. 

"  Do  you  see  this  groove  ?  "  she  a.sked,  pointing  to  it  with 
the  tip  of  another. 

I  examined  it  once  more  at  the  light  with  the  lens.  A 
longitudinal  groove,  apparently  ground  into  one  side  of  the 
needle,  lengthwise,  by  means  of  a  small  grinding-stone  anil 
emery  powder,  ran  for  a  (piarter  of  an  inch  above  the  point. 
This  groove  .seemed  to  me  to  have  been  produced  by  an 
amateur,  though  he  nuist  have  been  one  accustomed  to  deli- 
cate micro.scopic  manipulation  ;  for  the  edges  under  the  lens 
showed  shghtly  rough,  like  the  surface  of  a  file  on  a  .small 
scale:  not  smooth  and  poli.shed,  as  a  needle-maker  would 
have  left  them.     I  said  .so  to  Hilda. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  she  an.swered.  "  That  is  ju.st 
what  it  shows.  I  feel  sure  Sebastian  made  that  groove  him- 
self. He  could  have  bought  grooved  needles,  it  is  true, 
such  as  they  sometimes  use  for  retaining  small  quantities  of 
lymphs  and  medicines;  but  we  had  none  in  stock,  and  to  buy 
them  would  be  to  manufacture  evidence  against  himself,  in 
case  of  detection.  Besides,  the  rough,  jagged  edge  would 
hold  the  material  he  wished  to  inject  all  the  better,  while  its 
saw-like  points  would  tear  the  flesh,  imperceptibly,  but 
minutely,  and  so  serve  his  purpose." 

''  Which  was?" 

"  Try  the  needle,  and  judge  for  yourself.  I  prefer  you 
should  find  out.     You  can  tell  me  to-morrow." 


The  Needle  that  did  not  Match        161 


«( 


It  was  quick  of  you  to  detect  it  !  "   I  cried,  still  turning 
the  suspicious  olyect  over.     "  The  difference  is  so  slight." 

"  Yes;  but  you  tell  me  my  eyes  nre  as  sharp  as  the  needle. 
Besides,  I  had  reason  to  doubt;  and  Sebastian  himself  gave 
me  the  clue  by  selecting  his  instrument  with  too  great  de- 
liberation. He  had  put  it  there  with  the  rest,  but  it  lay  a 
little  apart  ;  and  as  he  picked  it  up,  gingerly,  I  began  to 
doubt.  When  I  saw  the  blue  gleam,  my  doubt  was  at  once 
converted  into  certainty.  Then  his  eyes,  too,  had  the  look 
which  I  know  means  victory.  Benign  or  baleful,  it  goes 
with  his  triumphs.  I  have  seen  that  look  before,  and  when 
once  it  lurks  scintillating  in  the  luminous  depths  of  his 
gleaming  eyeballs,  I  recognise  at  once  that,  whatever  his 
aim,  he  has  succeeded  in  it." 

"  Still,  Hilda,  I  am  loth " 

She  waved  her  hand  impatiently.  "  Waste  no  time,"  she 
cried,  in  an  authoritative  voice.  "  If  you  happen  to  let  that 
needle  rub  carelessly  against  the  sleeve  of  your  coat  you 
may  destroy  the  evidence.  Take  it  at  once  to  your  room, 
plunge  it  into  a  culture,  and  lock  it  up  safe  at  a  proper 
temperature  —  where  Sebastian  cannot  get  at  it  —  till  the 
consequences  develop." 

I  did  as  she  bid  me.  By  this  time,  I  was  not  wholly  un- 
prepared for  the  result  she  anticipated.  My  belief  in  Sebas- 
tian had  sunk  to  zero,  and  was  rapidly  reaching  a  negative 
quantity. 

At  nine  the  next  morning,  I  tested  one  drop  of  the  culture 
under  the  microscope.  Clear  and  limpid  to  the  naked  eye, 
it  was  alive  with  small  objects  of  a  most  suspicious  nature, 
when  properly  magnified.  I  knew  those  hungry  forms. 
Still,  I  would  not  decide  offhand  on  my  own  authority  in  a 


'1. 


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162 


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matter  of  such  nioincnt.  Sc*l)astiairs  character  was  at  stake 
—  tliu  cliaracter  of  the  man  who  led  the  profession.  I  called 
in  Calla^han,  who  liappened  to  be  in  the  ward,  and  asked 
him  lo  put  liis  eye  to  the  instruniunt  for  a  moment.  lie  was 
a  splendid  fellow  for  the  use  of  high  powers,  and  I  had  mag^- 
nified  the  culture  ^cxj  diameters.  "  What  do  you  call 
those  ?  "  r  asked,  hveathless. 

He  .scanned  them  carefully  with  his  experienced  eye.  "  Is 
it  the  microbes  ye  mean?"  he  answered.  "  An'  what  'ud 
they  be,  then,  if  it  was  n't  ihc  bacillus  of  pycemia  ?  " 

"  lilood-poisoniuL;  !  "  I  ejaculated,  horror  struck. 

"  Aye  ;  blood-iJoisoning  :  that  's  the  I-jiglish  of  it." 

I  assumed  an  air  of  indifference.  "  I  made  t!  lU  that  my- 
self," I  rejoined,  as  if  they  were  mere  ordinary  experimental 
gL-rms  ;  "  but  I  wanted  confirmation  of  my  own  opinion. 
Vou  're  sure  of  the  bacillus  ?  " 

"  An'  have  n't  I  been  keeping  swarms  of  those  very  same 
bacteria  under  se  observation  for  vSebastian  for  seven 
weeks  past  ?  Why,  I  know  them  as  well  as  I  know  me  own 
mother." 

"  Thank  you,"  I  said.  "  That  will  do."  And  I  carried 
off  the  microscope,  bacilli  and  all,  into  Hilda  Wade's  sitting- 
room.     "  Look  yourself !  "  I  cried  to  her. 

She  stared  at  them  through  the  instrument  v  'th  an  un- 
moved face,  "  I  thought  so,"  .she  answered  .shortly,  "  The 
bacillus  of  pyoemia.  A  mo.st  virul^^nt  type.  Exactly  what  I 
expected." 

"  You  anticipated  that  result  ?  " 

"Absolutel}'.  You  see,  blood-poisoning  matures  quickly, 
and  kills  almost  to  a  certainty.  Delirium  supervenes  so 
soon  that  the  pad-iit  \i?'S>  no  chance  of  explaining  suspicions. 


\ 


Tiu'  NcciUc  thiit  (lid  not  Match        163 

Besides,  it  would  all  seem  so  very  natural  !  Ivveryhody 
would  say:  '  vSlie  got  some  slight  wound,  which  microbes 
from  some  case  she  was  attending  contaminated.'  Vou  may 
he  sure  Sehi'.stian  thought  out  all  that,  lie  plans  with  con- 
sunwnate  skill.     lie  had  designed  everything." 


\ 


"I    KNOW    TllKM    AS   WKLL   AS    I    KNOW    MK   OWN    MOTHK.R." 


I  gazed  at  her,  uncertain.  **  And  what  will  you  do/"  i 
aiked.     "  Expose  him  ?  " 

She  opened  both  her  palms  with  a  blank  gesture  of  help- 
lessness. "  It  is  useless!  "  she  answered.  '  Nol)ody  would 
believe  me.     Consider  the  situation.      Voit  know  the  needle 


li 


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164 


Hilda  Wade 


I  Rave  you  vas  the  one  Sebastian  meant  to  use  —  the  one  he 
dropped  and  1  canpht — btrausc  you  are  a  friend  of  mine,  and 
because  you  have  learned  to  trust  me.  lUit  who  else  would 
credit  it  ?  I  have  only  my  word  against  his  —  an  unknown 
nurse's  aj^ainst  the  ^reat  Professor's.  Ivveryhody  would  say 
I  was  malicious  or  hysterical.  Hysteria  is  always  an  easy 
stone  lo  flinj;  at  an  injured  woman  who  asks  for  justice. 
They  would  declare  I  had  trumped  up  the  ca.se  to  forestall 
my  dismi.ssal.  They  would  .set  it  down  to  .spite.  We  can 
do  nothing  against  him.  Remember,  on  his  part,  the  utter 
absence  of  overt  motive." 

*'  And  you  mean  to  stop  on  here,  in  close  attendance  on  a 
man  who  has  attempted  your  life  ?  "  I  cried,  really  alarmed 
for  her  safety. 

"  I  am  not  .sure  about  that,"  she  answered.  "  I  must  take 
time  to  think.  My  presence  at  Nathaniel's  was  necessary 
to  my  Plan.  The  Plan  fails  for  the  present.  1  have  now  to 
look  round  and  reconsider  my  position." 

"  Hut  you  are  not  safe  here  now,"  I  urged,  growing  warm. 
"  If  Sebastian  really  wishes  to  get  rid  of  you,  and  is  as  un- 
.scrupuloiis  as  you  suppose,  with  his  gigantic  brain  he  can 
.soon  compass  his  end.  What  he  plans  he  execute.s.  You 
ought  not  to  remain  within  the  Professor's  reach  one  hour 
longer." 

"  I  have  thought  of  that,  too,"  she  replied,  with  an  almost 
unearthly  calm.  "  But  there  are  difficulties  either  way.  At 
any  rate,  I  am  glad  he  did  not  succeed  this  time.  For,  to 
have  killed  me  now,  would  have  frustrated  my  Plan  " — .she 
clasped  her  hands — "  my  Plan  is  ten  thousand  times  dearer 
than  life  to  me  !  " 

"  Dear  lady!  "  I  cried,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  "  I  implore 


The  Needle  that  did  not  Match        i^\s 


you  in  this  strait,  listen  to  what  I  urKc.  Why  fij^ht  your 
battle  alone  ?  Why  refuse  assistance  ?  I  have  admired  you 
so  lou^ — I  am  so  eager  to  help  you.      If  only  you  will  allow 

me  to  call  you " 

Her  eyes  brightened   and    softened.     Her  whole   bosom 


DON  T    I'RKSS   MK,     SHK   SAID. 


heaved.  I  felt  in  a  flash  she  was  not  wholly  indifferent  to 
me.  Strange  tremors  in  the  air  seenjcil  to  play  about  UH. 
But  she  waved  me  aside  once  more.  "  Don't  press  niu,"  hhe 
said,  in  a  very  low  voice.  "  Let  me  go  my  own  way.  It 
is  hard  enough  already,  this  task  I  have  uuderliiken,  without 
your  making  it  harder.     .     .     .     Dear  friend,  dear  friend, 


I 


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Hilda  Wacic 


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yoti  (loti't  (luite  iiiulcrstatid.  There  are  /rco  men  at  Nathan- 
iel's whom  I  desire  to  escape — Ivjcaiise  tliey  both  alike  stand 
in  tile  way  of  my  I'nrpose."  She  took  my  hands  in  hers. 
"  Ivach  in  a  dilTLTent  way,"  she  murnnired  once  more.  "  Hnt 
etich  I  nnist  avoid.  One  is  Sel)astian.  Tiie  other — "  she 
let  my  hand  drop  a^ain,  and  broke  oil  snddenly.  "  Dear 
IIid)ert,"  she  cried,  with  a  catch,  "  I  cannot  help  it  :  forgive 
me!" 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  called  me  hy  my  Christ- 
ian name.  The  mere  sonnd  of  the  w;)rd  made  me  nnsi)eak- 
al)ly  happy. 

Vet  she  waved  me  away.  "  Mnst  I  go?"  I  asked, 
(piivering. 

"  Ves,  ye.s  :  you  must  go.  I  cannot  .stand  it.  I  nuist  think 
this  thing  out,  undisturbed.     It  is  a  very  gruat  crisis." 

That  afternoon  and  evening,  by  .some  utdiappy  chance,  I 
was  fully  engaged  in  work  at  the  hospital.  Late  at  night  a 
letter  arrived  for  me.  I  glanced  at  it  in  di.smay.  It  bore 
the  Ba.singstoke  postmark.  Hut,  to  my  alarm  and  surprise, 
't  was  in  Hilda'.s  hand.  What  could  this  change  portend  ? 
I  opened  it,  all  tremulous. 

"  Dkar  Hubert, — "  I  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  It  was  no 
longer  "Dear  Dr.  Cumberledge "  now,  but  "  IIul)ert." 
That  was  something  gained,  at  any  rate.  I  read  on  with  a 
beating  heart.     What  had  Hilda  to  say  to  me  ? 

"Dear  Hubert,— By  the  time  this  reaches  yon,  I  shall  be  far 
away,  irrevocably  far,  from  London.  With  deep  regret,  with  fierce 
searchings  of  spirit,  I  have  come  to  the  coucliision  that,  for  the  Pur- 
pose I  have  ill  view,  it  would  be  better  for  me  at  once  to  leave 
Nathaniel's.  Where  I  go,  or  hat  I  mean  to  do,  I  do  not  wish  to  (ell 
you.  Of  your  charity,  I  pray,  refrain  from  asking  me.  I  am  aware 
that  your  kindness  and  gene  osity  deserve  better  reco;j[nition.     But, 


The  Nccdlr  th.it  (hcl  not  Match        1^)7 

like  Si-'wHtimi  IiiiiisrU",  I  iitii  llir  slav**  of  ni\  I'lirposi'.  I  Inivr  livi'«| 
(«)r  It  Jill  tlirst-  Miirs,  iind  it  in  siiH  \iry  lUar  In  iiu  .  To  till  \<mi  my 
plans  unuM  iiitvilirf  with  that  iiiti.  Do  not,  tlicrcroii-,  su|iposr  | 
am  insensible  to  your  ^:  totlnrss.  .  .  .  Drar  lluhi>rt,  Mparr  iik>  I 
ilarc  lint  say  mori",  lest  I  say  too  imuh.  I  ilart-  not  trn«>t  mvsiir.  iliil 
OIK-  tiling  I  must  !-ay.  I  am  nvin)^  from  row  (|uiii'  as  nimli  as  (rom 
Sclja^tiaii.  I'Myiii^  from  my  own  ln-ait,  *|Uili'  as  minh  as  fntni  my 
'•lutny.  Sonu-  day,  pirhajis,  if  I  aiiomplish  my  oWj. d,  1  ma\  till 
you  ali.  Mranwhilv,  I  lail  only  Ik-il;  of  )ou  of  \oiir  kiinhu-ss  to  trust 
me.  Wv  hIuu'.  «iot  mitt  iij^aiii,  I  fear,  for  yi-arH.  lint  I  shall  luver 
forget  you — you,  tl'e  kind  eoiinsfllor,  \vln»  have  hall  tiiriud  me  aside 
from  my  life's  Purpose.  Otu-  word  nion-,  and  I  slioiiM  (alter.  —  In 
virv  Kr»^"t '''"^•♦^'.  ""•'  amid  miuli  disturluMiee,  yours  ever  allection- 
ately  and  gratefully, 

"  nii.i»\.'" 


It  was  a  hurried  scrawl  iti  pencil,  as  if  wriltetj  in  a  train, 
I  felt  utterly  dejected.      Was  Hilda,  liieii,  leavinj;  ICn^l.md  :* 

Rousinj;  my.self  after  .some  minutes,  I  went  slrai^lit  to 
vSel)astiairs  rooms,  and  told  liim  in  brief  terms  that  Nurse 
Wade  had  disappeared  at  a  moment's  notice,  and  had  .sent  a 
note  to  tell  me  so. 

lie  looked  up  from  his  work,  and  .scanned  me  hard,  as  was 
his  wont.  "  That  is  weil,"  he  sud  at  last,  his  eyes  i;lowin^ 
deej)  ;  "  she  was  getting  too  great  .i  holil  on  you,  that  young 
woman!  " 

*'  She  retains  that  hold  upon  me,  sir,"  I  answetid  cuitly. 

"  You  are  making  a  grave  mistake  in  life,  my  dear  Cinn- 
herledge,"  he  went  on,  in  his  old  genial  tone,  which  1  liad 
ahnost  forgotten.  "  Before  you  go  further,  and  entangle 
yourself  more  deeply.  I  think  it  is  oidy  right  thnt  I  .should 
undeceive  you  as  to  this  girl's  true  position.  vShe  is  pa.ssing 
under  a  fal.se  name,  atid  she  comes  of  a  tainted  .stock.  .  .  . 
Nurse  Wade,  as  she  chooses  to  call  her.self,  is  a  daughter  of 
the  notorious  murderer,  Yorke-Bannermau." 


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My  mind  Wi\\A  l»ack  U*  the  incident  of  tho  hrolvcn  hasiii. 
Vorkc-Haiinfrinan's  name  had  profoundly  niDvcd  her.  Tlicn 
I  tliou^jht  «)f  Hilda's  face.     Munlcrcrf*,  I  said  to  n^ysclf,  do 


11      .: 


Tins  nusi'iiAL  IS  NOT  pk;  knouc.h  for  you  and  me  ahrkast. 


not  beget  such  daughters  as  that.  Not  even  accidental 
murderers,  like  my  poor  friend  I^e  G^yt.  I  saw  at  once  the 
primd  facie  evidence  was  strongly  against  her.  But  I  had 
faith  in  her  still.     I  drew  myself  up  firmly,  and  stared  him 


l  he  Needle  that  did  not  Match        '^^9 


hack  full  in  the  face.     "I  do  not  hclievt'  it,"  I  .mswercil, 
sliortly. 

Vott  do  not  hilievc  it  ^     I   ull  yoti  it  is  ^o      The  ^irl 
herself  as  good  as  ack^U)\vlc•<^;e<l  it  to  ttie." 

I  spoke  slo.vly  and  disiimlly.  "  I)r.  Seliastian,"  I  said, 
confroiiliiJi;  him.  "  let  tis  he  quite  clear  wilh  one  another.  I 
have  foun-1  you  out.  I  know  how  you  tried  to  poison  that 
lady.  To  poison  her  with  bacilli  which  /  dctrcted.  I  can- 
not Ull  your  word  ;  I  cmnot  trust  your  inferences.  ICilher 
.she  is  not  Yorke  liainiernian's  daughter  at  all,  or  else  .  .  . 
Yorke-Hannerinau  was //(V  a  nuirderer.  .  .  ."  I  watched 
his  face  doHcly.  Conviction  leaped  upon  nie.  "And  .someone 
else  was,"  I  went  on.     "  I  might  put  a  name  to  him." 

With  a  .stern  white  face,  he  rose  and  opened  the  door. 
lie  pointed  to  it  .slowly.  "  This  hospital  is  not  big  enough 
for  you  and  me  abreast,"  he  .said,  with  cold  politeness. 
"  One  or  other  of  us  nuist  go.  Which,  I  leave  to  your  good 
sense  to  determine." 

Kven  at  that  moment  of  detection  and  disgrace,  in  one 
man's  eyes,  at  least,  Sebastian  retained  his  full  measure  of 
dignity. 


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WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

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CHAPTER  VI 


»l'     'It 


'•HI  'J 


THK    KPISODK   OK  THK    I.KTTllK    WITH    THlv    n.VSINdSTOKK 

POSTMARK 

1HAVE  a  vast  respect  for  my  grandfather.  He  was  a  inati 
of  forethought.  He  left  me  a  modest  little  income  of 
seven  hundred  a-year,  well  invested.  Now,  .seven  hun- 
dred a-year  is  not  exactly  wealth  ;  but  it  is  an  unobtru.sive 
competence  ;  it  permits  a  bachelor  to  move  about  the  world 
and  choo.se  at  will  his  own  profession.  /  cho.se  medicine  ; 
but  I  was  not  wholly  dependent  upon  it.  So  I  honoured  my 
grandfather's  wise  dispo.sition  of  his  worldly  goods  ;  though, 
oddly  enough,  my  cousin  Tom  (to  whom  he  left  his  watch 
and  five  hundred  pounds)  .speaks  mosf  disrespectfully  of  his 
character  and  intellect. 

Thanks  to  my  grandfather's  silken  sailed  barque,  therefore, 
when  I  found  myself  practically  di.smissed  from  Nathaniel's 
I  was  not  thrown  on  my  beam-ends,  as  most  young  men  in 
my  position  would  have  been  ;  I  had  time  and  opportunity 
for  the  favourite  pastime  of  looking  about  me.  Of  course, 
had  I  chosen,  I  might  have  fought  the  case  to  the  bitter  end 
against  Sebastian  ;  he  could  not  dismiss  me — that  lay  with 
the  committee.  But  I  hardly  cared  to  fight.  In  the  first 
place,  though  I  had  found  him  out  as  a  man,  I  still  respected 

,    170 


Letter  with  the  li'isiiiijstokc  Postmark    i;i 


^»• 


him  as  a  great  teacher  ;  and  in  the  second  place  (whicli  is 
always  more  important),  I  wanted  to  find  and  follow  Hilda. 

To  he  snie,  Hilda,  in  that  enigmatic  letter  of  hers,  had 
implored  me  not  to  seek  her  ont  ;  hut  I  think  you  will  admit 
there  is  one  retjUPit  which  no  man  can  grant  to  the  girl  he 
loves — and  that  is  the  retjuest  to  keep  away  from  her.  If 
Hilda  did  not  want  nic,  I  wanted  Hilda  ;  and,  being  a  man, 
I  meant  to  find  her. 

My  chances  of  discovering  her  whereabouts,  however,  I 
had  to  confess  to  ni>self  (when  it  came  to  the  point)  were 
extremely  .slender.  vShe  had  vani.shed  from  my  horizon, 
melted  into  space.  My  sole  hint  of  a  clue  consisted  in  the  fact 
that  the  letter  she  sent  me  had  been  po.sted  at  Basingstoke. 
Here,  then,  was  my  problem  :  given  an  envelope  with  the 
Basingstoke  postmark,  to  find  in  what  part  of  luirope,  A.sia, 
Africa,  or  America  the  writer  of  it  might  be  discovered.  It 
opened  up  a  fine  field  for  speculation. 

When  I  .set  out  to  face  this  broad  puzzle,  my  fir.st  idea 
was:  "  I  must  ask  Hilda."  In  all  circumstances  of  diffi- 
culty, I  had  grown  accustomed  to  .submitting  my  doubts  and 
surmi.ses  to  her  acute  intelligence  ;  -^nd  her  instinct  almost 
always  supplied  the  right  .solution.  >,\xt  now  Hilda  was 
gone  ;  it  was  Hilda  herself  I  wished  to  track  through  the 
labyrinth  of  the  world.  I  could  expect  no  assistance  in 
tracking  her  from  Hilda. 

"  Let  me  think,"  I  said  to  myself,  over  a  reflective  pipe, 
with  feet  poised  on  the  fender.  "  How  would  Hilda  herself 
have  approached  this  problem  ?  Imagine  \  'm  Hilda.  I 
must  try  to  strike  a  trail  by  applying  her  own  methods  to 
her  own  character.  She  would  have  attacked  the  question, 
no  doubt," — here   I   eyed    my    pipe  wisely, —  "from   the 


I 


I 


m 


172 


Hilda  Wacic 


psychological  side.  »Slie  would  have  asked  herself" — I 
Htroked  my  cliiti — "what  such  a  temperament  as  hers  was 
likely  to  do  under  such-and-such  circumstances.  And  she 
would  have  answered  it  aright.  But  then  " — I  puffed  away 
once  or  twice — "  s/ic  is  Hilda." 


I 


\i 


'  ■?, 


'It 


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m 


"OVER    A    RKFLKCTIVF,    I'll'l'. 

When  I  came  to  reconnoitre  the  matter  in  this  light  I 
became  at  once  aware  how  great  a  gulf  separated  the  clumsy 
male  intelligence  from  the  immediate  and  almost  unerring 
intuitions  of  a  clever  woman.  I  am  considered  no  fool  ;  in 
my  own  profession,  I  may  venture  to  say,  I  was  Sebastian's 
favourite  pupil.  Yet,  though  I  asked  myself  over  and  over 
again  where  Hilda  would  be  likely  to  go — Canada,  China, 
Australia — as  the  outcome  of  her  character,  in  these  given 


Letter  with  the  Hasinj^stokc  Postmark    173 


cotulitions,  I  got  no  answer.  I  stared  ;it  tlic  fire  and  re- 
flected. I  smoked  two  successive  ))ipes,  and  .sliook  out  the 
a.shes.  "  Let  nie  consider  how  Hilda's  tenij^eratnent  would 
work,"  I  said,  lookinji;  sagacious.  I  .said  it  several  times  — 
but  there  I  stuck.  I  went  no  further.  The  solution  woidd 
not  come.  I  felt  that  in  order  to  i)lay  Hilda's  i)art.  it  was 
necessary  first  to  have  Hilda's  head-piece.  Not  every  man 
can  bend  the  bow  of  Ulysses. 

As  I  turned  the  problem  over  in  my  mind,  however,  one 
phiase  at  last  came  back  to  nie  —  a  ])hrase  which  Hilda  her- 
self had  let  fall  when  we  were  debating  a  very  similar  point 
about  poor  Hugo  Le  Geyt  :  "  If  I  were  in  his  place,  what 
do  you  think  I  would  do  ? — why,  hide  myself  at  once  in  the 
greenest  recesses  of  our  Carnarvonshire  mountains." 

She  must  have  gone  to  Wales,  then.  I  hnd  her  own 
authority  for  saying  so.  .  .  .  And  yet — Wales?  Wales? 
I  pulled  myself  up  with  a  jerk.  In  that  case,  how  did  .she 
come  to  be  passing  by  Basingstoke  ? 

Was  the  postmark  a  blind  ?  Had  she  hired  someone  to 
take  the  letter  somewhere  for  her,  on  purpose  to  put  me  off 
on  a  false  track  ?  I  could  hardly  think  so.  Besides,  the 
time  was  against  it.  I  saw  Hilda  at  Nathaniel's  in  the 
morning  ;  the  very  same  evening  I  received  the  envelope 
with  the  Basingstoke  postmark. 

"  If  I  were  in  his  place."  Yes,  true;  but,  now  I  come  to 
think  on  it,  were  the  positions  really  parallel  ?  Hilda  was 
not  flying  for  her  life  from  justice  ;  she  was  only  endeavour- 
ing to  escape  Sebastian  —  and  myself.  The  instances  she 
had  quoted  of  the  mountaineer's  curious  homing  instinct  — 
the  wild  yearning  he  feels  at  moments  of  great  straits  to 
bury  himself  among  the  nooks  of  his  native  hills — were  they 


r 


'74 


Hilda  Wade 


'ttiiii 


! 


not  all  instances  of  nuirdcrers  pursued  l)y  the  police  ?  It 
was  a))ject  terror  that  drove  these  men  to  their  hurrows. 
Hut  Hilda  was  not  a  nnirderer  ;  she  was  not  dogged  by 
remorse,  despair,  or  the  myrnddons  of  the  law  ;  it  was  nuir- 
der  she  was  avoiding,  not  the  pniushment  of  murder.  Tliat 
made,  of  course,  an  obvious  tlifTerence.  "  Irrevoca))ly  far 
from  London,"  she  said.  Wales  is  a  suburb.  I  gave  up 
the  idea  that  it  was  likely  to  prove  her  place  of  refuge  from 
the  two  men  she  was  bent  on  escaping.  Hong-Kong,  after 
all,  seemed  more  probable  than  IJ:inlK'ris. 

That  first  failure  gave  me  a  clue,  however,  as  to  the  best 
way  of  applying  Hilda's  own  methods.  "  What  would 
such  a  person  do  under  the  circumstances?  "  that  was  her 
way  of  putting  the  question.  Clearly,  then,  I  must  first 
decide  what  7i'crc  the  circumstances.  Was  vSel)astian  speak- 
ing the  truth  ?  Was  Hilda  Wade,  or  was  .she  not,  the 
daughter  of  the  supposed  murderer,  Dr.  Yorke-Bannerman  ? 

I  looked  up  as  much  of  the  case  as  I  could,  in  unobtrusive 
ways,  among  the  old  law-reports,  and  found  that  the  bar- 
rister who  had  had  charge  of  the  defence  was  my  father's 
old  friend,  Mr.  Horace  Mayfield,  a  man  of  elegant  tastes, 
and  the  means  to  gratify  them. 

I  went  to  call  on  him  on  Sunday  evening  at  his  arti.stically 
luxurious  house  in  Onslow  Gardens.  A  sedate  footman 
answered  the  bell.  Fortunately,  Mr.  Mayfield  was  at  home, 
and,  what  is  rarer,  disengaged.  Yon  do  not  always  find  a 
successful  Q.C.  at  his  ease  among  his  books,  beneath  the 
electric  light,  ready  to  give  up  a  vacant  hour  to  friendly 
colloquy. 

**  Remember  Yorke-Bannerman'j  case  ?  "  he  said,  a  huge 
smile  breaking  slowly  like  a  wave  over  his  genial  fat  face  — 


Letter  with  the  Hasin;^sti)kc  Postmark    175 


Horace  Mayficld  roseml)lcs  a  ^rcat  k'>"<1  l>iii"<>iir«-''l  toad, 
willi  bland  niamicrs  and  a  cap.icious  doiihk;  chin  —  "I 
should  just  say  I  did!  Bless  my  soul  -  why,  yi.s,"  he 
l)L'a!ned,  "  I  was  YorkeHauncrnian's  counsel.  ICxcellent 
tlllow,  Vorke  Hannernian  -  most  unfortunate  end,  though 
—  precious  clever  chap,  tool  Had  an  astoiniding  memory. 
Recollected  every  symptom  of  every  patient  he  ever  attended. 
And  siuli  an  eye!  Diagnosis?  It  was  <  lairvoyance!  A 
gift — no  less.  Knew  what  was  the  matter  with  you  the 
moment  he  looked  ;it  you." 

That  .sounded  like  Hilda.  The  .same  surprising  power  of 
recalling  facts  ;  the  same  keen  faculty  for  interpreting  char- 
acter or  the  signs  of  feeling.  "  He  poisoned  .somebody,  I 
believe,"  I  nuirnuired,  casually,  "  An  uncle  of  his,  or 
something." 

Mayfield's  great  .squat  face  wrinkled  ;  the  double  chin, 
folding  down  on  the  neck,  became  more  ostentatiously 
double  than  ever.  "  Well,  I  can't  admit  that,"  he  .said,  in 
his  suave  voice,  twirling  the  string  of  his  eye-glass.  "  I  was 
Vorke-Bannerman's  advocate,  you  see  ;  and  therefore  I  was 
paid  not  to  admit  it.  Besides,  he  was  a  friend  of  mine,  and 
I  always  liked  him.  But  T  icill  allow  that  the  ca.se  did  look 
a  trifle  black  against  him." 

"  Ha  ?     Looked  black,  did  it  ?  "  I  faltered. 

The  judicious  barrister  .shrugged  his  .shoulders.  A  genial 
smile  spread  oilily  once  more  over  his  smooth  face.  "  None 
of  my  business  to  say  so,"  he  answered,  puckering  the  cor- 
ners of  his  eyes.  "  Still,  it  was  a  long  time  ago  ;  and  the 
circumstances  certainly  2cere  suspicious.  Perhaps,  on  the 
whole,  Hubert,  it  was  just  as  well  the  poor  fellow  died  before 
the  trial  came  ofif ;  otherwise  "  — he  pouted  his  lips — "  I 


I 
} 


i 
■I 


\  , 


' 


f 


T^ 


176 


Hilda  Wade 


« I 


might  have  had  my  work  cut  out  to  save  him."     And  he 
eyed  the  hhie  china  gods  on  the  mantelpiece  affectionately. 

**  I  believe  the  Crown  urged  money  as  the  motive?"  I 
.suggested. 

May  field  glanced  iiKjuiry  at  me.  "  Now,  why  do  you 
want  to  know  all  this?"  he  asked,  in  a  suspicious  voice, 
coming  hack  from  his  dragons.  "It  is  irregular,  very,  to 
worm  information  out  of  an  innocent  barrister  in  his  hours 
of  ease  about  a  former  client.  We  are  a  guileless  race,  we 
lawyers  ;  don't  abuse  our  c  »nfidence." 

He  seemed  an  honest  man,  I  thought,  in  spite  of  his 
mocking  tjue.  I  trusted  him,  and  made  a  clean  breast  of  it. 
"  I  believe,"  I  answered,  with  an  impressive  little  pause, 
"  I  want  to  marry  Yorke-Bannerman's  daughter." 

lie  gave  a  quick  .start.     "  What,  Maisie?"  he  exclaimed. 

I  shook  my  head.  "  No,  no  ;  that  is  not  the  name,"  I 
replied. 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  "  But  there  is  no  other,"  he 
ha/arded  cautiously  at  last.     "  I  knew  the  family." 

"  I  am  not  sure  of  it,"  I  went  on.  "I  have  merely  my 
suspicions.  I  am  in  love  with  a  girl,  and  something  about 
her  makes  me  think  she  is  probably  a  Yorke-Bannerman." 

"  But,  my  d^ar  Hubert,  if  that  is  so,"  the  great  lawyer 
went  on,  waving  me  off  with  one  fat  hand,  "  it  must  be  at 
once  apparent  to  you  that  /  am  the  last  person  on  earth  to 
whom  you  ought  to  apply  for  information.  Remember  my 
oath.     The  practice  of  our  clan :  the  seal  of  secrecy ! ' ' 

I  was  frank  once  more.  "  I  do  not  know  whether  the 
lady  I  mean  is  or  is  not  Yorke-Bannerman's  daughter,"  I 
persisted.  "  She  may  be,  and  she  may  not.  She  giv^es 
another  name — that  's  certain.    But  whether  she  is  or  isn't, 


Letter  with  tlv  Hasini;st()kc'  rosiin.irlN    177 


one  tliiiiK  I  know  I  mean  lo  in  irr>  licr.  I  liclicvc-  in  her  ; 
I  trnst  licr.  I  only  seek  to  j;;iin  this  intorin.ilion  now 
l>c'caiiSL'  I  (lon'l  know  wlicrc  slu.'  is— and  I  w.inl  to  track 
her." 

He  crossed  ids  bi^  hands  with  an  air  of  Christian  :esi^nn- 
tion,  and  looked  np  at  tile  panels  of  the  colTeied  ceilinj;. 
"  In  that,"  he  answered,  "  I  may  honestly  say.  I  can't  help 
yon.  Hnnibni;  apart,  I  have  not  known  Mrs.  Vorke- 
Hannernian's  address  -or  Maisie's  either -ever  since  my 
l^oor  friend's  death.  Prudent  woman,  Mrs.  Vorke- Hanner- 
ni;in!  She  went  away,  I  believe,  to  somewiiere  in  North 
Wales,  and  afterwards  to  Hrittany.  Ihit  she  probably 
changed  her  name  ;  and  -she  did  not  confide  in  me." 

I  went  on  to  ask  him  a  few  (jnestions  about  the  case,  pre- 
niisin.i;  that  I  did  so  in  the  most  friendly  spirit.  "  Oh,  I  can 
oidy  tell  yon  what  is  publicly  known,"  he  answered,  beam- 
ing:, with  the  usual  professional  pretence  of  the  most  sphinx- 
like reticence.  "  Hut  the  plain  facts,  as  universally  admitted, 
were  the.se.  I  break  no  confidence.  Vorke-lJannerman  had 
a  rich  uncle  from  whom  he  had  expectations  —  a  certain 
Admiral  vScott  Prideaux.  This  uncle  had  lately  made  a 
will  in  Yorke-Bannerman's  favour;  but  he  was  a  cantanker- 
ous old  chap—naval,  you  know — autocratic — crusty— given 
lo  changing  his  mind  with  each  change  of  the  wind,  and 
easily  offended  by  his  relations  —  the  sort  of  cheerful  old 
party  who  makes  a  new  will  once  every  month,  disinheriting 
the  nephew  he  last  dined  with.  Well,  one  day  the  Admiral 
was  taken  ill,  at  his  own  house,  and  Yorke-Bannermau 
attended  him.  Our  contention  was  —  I  .speak  now  as  ni}' 
old  friend's  counsel  —  that  vScott  Prideaux,  getting  as  tired 
of  life  as  we  were  all   tired  of  him,  and   weary  of  this 


1» 

II 
1^ 


la 


p^'i "» 


.*  ' 


iVll' 

» 

1 

* 

\ 

K  ■  ■■ 

i 

! 

,lf 


Ii 


1 


I 

n 


ii 


fi 


.;8 


Hilda  Wade 


ri'dirrent  \v«)rry  of  will  mukin^r.  «1cteriulnerl  at  Inst  to  clear 
out  for  ^jood  from  a  world  wlKri*  lie  was  so  little  appreci- 
ated, ami,  therefore,  tried  to  poison  liimseli." 

"  With  acouitine  ?  "  I  suj;>;esled,  eaKerly. 

"  Unfortunately,  yes  ;  he  made  use  of  aconitiiie  for  that 


DMIRAL   WAS  TAKEN   ILL. 


otherwise  laudable  purpose.  Now,  as  ill  luck  would  have 
it  "  —  Mayfield's  wrinkles  deepened  —  "  Yorke-Bannerman 
and  vSebastian,  then  two  rising  doctors  engaged  in  physi- 
olo};icaI  researches  together,  had  just  been  occupied  in 
experimenting  upon  this  very  drug  —  testing  the  use  of 
acouitine.  Indeed,  you  will  no  doubt  remember" — he 
crossed  his  fat  hands  again  comfortably  —  "it  was  these  pre- 
cise researches  on  a  then  little-known  poison  that  first 
brought  Sebastian  prominently  before  the  public.  What  was 
the  consequence?"     His  smooth,  persuasive  voice  flowed 


Letter  with  [\\c  liasin^stoU:  Postmark    170 

on  n.H  if  I  were  a  coiicenlniled  jii^y.  "  Tlie  Adtuir  il  vjrew 
rapidly  worse,  and  insisted  upon  calling;  in  a  second  opinion. 
No  doubt  he  did  n't  like  the  aconiline  wIrmi  it  caino  to  the 
pinch  —  for  it  i/tus  pinch,  I  can  tell  yon  —  and  repented  hitn 
of  his  evil.  VorkeMannernian  sn^^csted  Sebastian  ;is  the 
seconrl  opinion  ;  the  uncle  accjuiesced  ;  Scbastim  was  c.dk-d 
ill,  and,  of  Cf)nrse,  bfin^  fresh  from  his  researches,  inune- 
diately  recoj^nised  t!ie  sytnploins  of  aconitine  poisoniiijj:." 

"  What  I  Seliastian  found  it  out  ?  "  I  crierl,  starting:. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  Sebastian.  lie  watched  the  cas'j  from  that 
point  to  the  end  ;  and  the  oddest  pirt  of  it  all  was  this  — 
that  though  he  coinmutucated  with  the  police,  and  himself 
prepared  every  morsel  of  food  that  the  poor  old  Atlmiral  took 
from  that  moment  forth,  the  symj)t()ms  continually  increased 
in  severity.  The  police  contention  was  that  Vorke-Hamier- 
man  .somehow  mana^cvl  to  put  the  stuff  into  the  milk  bctore- 
haiul  ;  my  own  theory  was  —  .as  coutisel  for  the  accused  "  — 
he  blinked  his  fat  eyes — "  that  old  Prideaux  had  concealed  a 
large  quantity  of  aconitine  in  tlie  bed,  before  his  illness,  and 
went  on  taking  it  from  time  to  time— just  to  .sj)ite  his 
nephew." 

"  And  you  M/\'2r  that,  Mr.  Mayfield  ?  " 

The  broad  smile  broke  concentrically  in  ripples  over  the 
great  lawyer's  face.  His  .smile  was  Ma\field's  main  feature. 
He  shrugged  his  .shoulders  and  expanded  his  big  hands  wide 
open  before  him.  "  My  dear  Hubert,"  he  .said,  with  a  mo.st 
humorous  expression  of  countenance,  "  you  are  a  profe.s- 
.sional  man  yourself ;  therefore  you  know  that  every  profes- 
sion has  its  own  little  courtesies  —  its  own  small  fictions,  I 
was  Yorke-Bannerman's  counsel,  as  well  as  his  friend.  'T  is 
a  point  of  honour  with  us  that  no  barri.ster  will  ^^ver  admit  a 


I 


•1 , 
'I 

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U 

11 


T*" 


I  So 


Hilda  W.kIc 


m 


,'■     1 


I' 


,  ill 


.'i 


,      I 


<  . 


Ilf     i 


<l«)iibl  MH  to  ii  dlful's  innocence  is  he  not  pnld  to  mnintain 
it?  —  und  to  my  (lyin^  day  I  will  constantly  maintain  tliat 
olil  i'ti<k'an\  )ii>i.>>oiK'|  hinisell'.  Maintain  it  with  tltat 
(lo^V^^'d  iiiid  mean in^icHs  obstinacy  with  wliirh  wc  always 
clin;;  to  whatever  is  least  provable.  .  .  .  Oil,  scs'  He 
poisoned  himself;  an!  Vink  •  Ilmnerman  was  innocent. 
.     .  Mill  still,  yon  know,  it  ..vr\  the  sort  of  case  where  nn 

acnte  lawyer,  witli  a  repnlation  to  mike,  wotdd  prefer  to  be 
for  the  Crown  rather  than  for  the  prisoner." 

"  Ihit  it  was  never  tried."  I  cjacnlatcd. 

"  No,  hap|)ily  for  ns,  it  was  never  tried.  lM»rtnne  favonred 
lis.  Yorke-Ikiniierman  had  a  weak  heart,  a  conveniently 
weak  heart,  which  the  inqnest  sorely  affected ;  and  besides, 
he  was  deeply  an>;ry  at  what  he  persisted  in  c.dlini;  Sebas- 
tian's defection.  lie  evidently  tlionj^lU  Sebastian  onj;hl  to 
have  stood  by  him.  1 1  is  collea^ne  preferred  the  claims  of 
piil)lic  duty  —  as  he  niidetstood  them,  I  mean  —  to  those  of 
]>rivate  friendship.  It  was  a  very  .sad  case  -  for  Vorke- 
HaiMierman  was  really  a  charming;  fellow.  lUil  I  confess  I 
7t'<r.v  relieved  when  he  died  miexpectedly  on  the  morninj;  of 
liis  arrest.     It  took  olT  my  shunlders  a  most  .serious  burden." 

"  You  think,  then,  the  case  would  have  gone  against 
him?" 

"  My  dear  Hubert,"  his  whole  face  puckered  with  an  in- 
duljjjent  .smile,  "  of  course  the  case  must  have  gone  against 
us.  Juries  are  fools;  but  they  are  not  such  fools  as  to  swal- 
low everything — like  o.striches:  to  let  me  throw  dust  in  their 
eyes  about  so  plain  an  issue.  Consider  the  facts,  consider 
them  impartially.  Yorke-Baunermau  had  easy  access  to 
aconitine;  had  whole  ounces  of  it  in  his  po.s.se.ssion  ;  he 
treated  the  uncle  from  whom  he  was  to  inherit ;  he  was  in 


'I 

<l 
u 

11 


•'  i 


182 


Hilda  Wade 


It  < 


>trii 


temporary  embarrassments — that  came  out  at  the  inquest  ; 
it  was  known  that  the  Admiral  had  just  made  a  twenty- 
third  will  in  his  favour,  and  that  the  Admiral's  wills  were 
liable  to  alteration  every  time  a  nephew  ventured  upon  an 
opinion  in  politics,  religion,  science,  navigation,  or  the  right 
card  at  whist,  difTering  l)y  a  shade  from  that  of  the  uncle. 
The  Admiral  died  of  aconitine  poisoning  ;  and  vSebastian  ob- 
serv'ed  and  detailed  the  symptoms.  Could  anything  be 
plainer  —  I  mean,  could  any  combination  of  fortuitous  cir- 
cumstatices  " — he  blinked  pleasantly  again — "be  more  ad- 
verse to  an  advocate  sincerely  convinced  of  his  client's  inno- 
cence—  as  a  professional  duty?"  And  he  gazed  at  me 
comically. 

The  more  he  piled  up  the  case  against  the  man  who  I 
now  felt  sure  was  Hilda's  father,  the  less  did  I  believe  him. 
A  (lark  conspiracy  seemed  to  loom  up  in  the  background. 
"  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you,"  I  asked,  at  last,  in  a  very 
tentative  tone,  "  that  perhaps — I  throw  out  the  hint  as  the 
merest  suggestion  —  perhaps  it  may  have  been  Sebastian 
who " 

He  smiled  this  time  till  I  thought  his  smile  would  swallow 
him. 

"  If  Yorke-Banuerman  had  nof  been  my  client,"  he  mused 
aloud,  "  I  might  have  been  inclined  to  suspect  rather  that 
vSebastian  aided  him  to  avoid  justice  by  giving  him  some- 
thing violent  to  take,  if  he  wished  it  :  something  which 
might  accelerate  the  inevitable  action  of  the  heart-disease 
from  which  he  was  suffering.     Is  n't  //laf  more  likely  ?  " 

I  saw  there  was  nothing  further  to  be  got  out  of  Mayfield. 
His  opinion  was  fixed  ;  he  was  a  placid  ruminant.  But  he 
had  given  me  already  much  food  for  thought.     I  thanked 


Letter  with  the  Basingstoke  Postniaik    i^^3 

him  for  his  assistance,  and  rcturncil  on  foot  to  my  rooms  at 
the  hospital. 

I  was  now,  however,  in  a  somewiiat  dilTerent  position  for 
tracking  Hilda  from  that  which  I  occnpied  before  my  inter- 
view with  the  famous  counsel.  I  felt  certain  l)y  this  time 
that  Hilda  Wade  and  Maisie  Vorke-Iiannerman  were  one 
and  the  same  person.  To  be  sure,  it  gave  me  a  twinge  to 
think  that  Hilda  should  be  ma.s{[uera(ling  under  an  assumed 
name  ;  but  I  waived  that  ([uestion  for  the  moment,  and 
awaited  her  explanation.s.  The  great  point  now  was  to  find 
Hilda.  She  was  flying  from  Sebastian  to  mature  a  new 
plan.  But  whither  ?  I  proceeded  to  argue  it  out  on  her 
own  principles;  oh,  how  lamely  !  The  world  is  still  so  big  ! 
Mauritius,  the  Aigentine,  British  Columbia,  New  Zealand! 

The  letter  I  had  received  bore  the  Basingstoke  postmark. 
Now  a  person  may  be  passing  Basingstoke  on  his  way  either 
to  Southampton  or  Plymouth,  both  of  which  are  ports  of 
embarcation  for  various  foreign  countries.  I  attached  im- 
portance to  that  clue.  Something  about  the  tone  of  Hilda's 
letter  made  me  realise  that  she  intended  to  put  the  sea  be- 
tween us.  In  concluding  so  much,  I  felt  sure  I  was  not 
mistaken.  Hilda  had  too  big  and  too  cosmopolitan  a  mind 
to  speak  of  being  *'  irrevocably  far  from  London,"  if  she 
were  only  going  to  some  town  in  England,  or  even  to  Nor- 
mandy, or  the  Channel  Island  .  "  Irrevocably  far  "  pointed 
rather  to  a  destination  outside  Europe  altogether  —  to  India, 
Africa,  America;  not  to  Jersey,  Dieppe,  or  Saint-Malo. 

Was  it  Southampton  or  Plymouth  to  which  she  was  first 
bound  ?  —  that  was  the  next  question.  I  inclined  to  South- 
ampton. For  the  sprawling  lines  (vSO  different  from  her  usual 
neat  hand)  were  written  hurriedly  in  a  train,  I  could  see  ; 


'I 
I 
•I 


i 


1S4 


Hilda  Wade 


iV  ', 


and,  on  consuUinp:  BradslKiw,  I  found  that  tlie  Plynionth  ex- 
presses stop  longest  at  vSalisbnry,  wIiltu  Hilda  would,  ihere- 
fore,  have  been  likely  to  post  her  note  if  she  were  K<^)iu^  lo 
the  far  west  ;  while  some  of  the  vSouthaniptoii  trains  stop  at 
Hasingstoke,  which  is,  indeed,  the  most  convenient  point  on 
that  route  for  sendinjjf  off  a  lotler.  This  was  mere  hlinrl 
guesswork,  to  be  sure,  compared  with  Hilda's  irunediate 
and  unerring  intuition  ;  but  it  had  some  probability  in  its 
favour,  at  any  rate.  Try  both  :  of  the  two,  she  was  likelier 
to  be  going  to  vSouthampton. 

My  next  move  was  to  consult  the  li.st  of  outgoing  steamers. 
Hilda  had  left  London  on  a  vSalurday  morning.  Now,  on 
alternate  Saturdays,  the  steamers  of  the  Castle  line  sail  from 
Southampton,  where  they  call  to  take  up  passengers  and 
mails.  Was  this  one  of  those  alternate  Saturdays  ?  I  looked 
at  the  list  of  dates  :  it  was.  That  told  further  in  ftivour  of 
Southampton.  But  did  any  steamer  of  any  pacsenger  line 
sail  from  Plymouth  on  the  same  day  ?  None,  that  I  coidd 
find.  Or  from  Southampton  elsewhere  ?  I  looked  them  all 
up.  The  Royal  Mail  Company's  boats  start  on  Wednesdays; 
the  North  German  Lloyd's  on  Wednesdays  and  vSundays. 
Those  were  the  only  likely  vessels  I  could  discover.  Hither, 
then,  I  concluded,  Hilda  meant  to  sail  on  Saturday  by  the 
Castle  line  for  South  Africa,  or  else  on  Sunday  by  North 
German  Lloyd  for  some  part  of  America. 

How  I  longed  for  one  hour  of  Hilda  to  help  me  out  with 
her  almost  infallible  instinct.  I  realised  how  feeble  and 
fallacious  was  my  own  groping  in  the  dark.  Her  knowledge 
of  temperament  would  have  revealed  to  her  at  once  what  I 
was  trying  to  discover,  like  the  police  she  despised,  by  the 
clumsy  "  clues  "  which  so  roused  her  sarcasm, 


Letter  with  the  Hasingstokc  Postniark    1S5 


However,  I  went  to  bed  aii'.l  slept  on  it.  Next  morning 
I  cleterniiiR'd  to  set  out  for  JSontlianipton  on  a  tour  of  inquiry 
to  all  the  steamboat  agencies.  If  that  failed,  I  could  go  on 
to  riymouth. 

Hut,  as  chance  would  have  it,  the  morning  post  brought 
me  an  unex- 
pected letter, 
which  helped 
me  not  a  little 
in  unravelling 
the  problem. 
It  was  a  crum- 
pled letter, 
written  on 
rather  .soiled 
I)aper,  in  an 
uneducated 
hand,  and  it 
bore,  like   Hilda's,    the  Basingstoke  postmark. 

"Charlotte  Churtwood  sends  her  duty  to  Dr.  Cutiiberled<(c,"  it  said, 
with  somewhat  uncertain  spelling,  "and  I  atn  very  sorry  that  I  was 
not  able  to  Post  the  letter  to  you  in  London,  as  the  lady  ast  me,  hut 
after  her  train  ad  left  has  I  was  stepping  into  mine  the  Inline  started 
and  I  was  knocked  down  and  badly  hurt  and  the  lady  gave  me  a  half- 
soveri.ig  to  Post  it  in  London  has  soon  as  I  got  there  but  bein  unable 
to  do  so  I  now  return  it  dear  sir  not  knowing  the  lady's  name  and 
adress  she  having  trusted  me  through  seeing  me  on  the  platform,  and 
perhaps  you  can  send  it  back  to  her,  and  was  very  sorry  I  could  not 
Post  it  were  she  ast  nie,  but  time  beiu  an  objeck  put  it  in  the  box  in 
Basingstoke  station  and  now  inclose  post  office  order  for  ten  Shillings 
whitch  dear  sir  kindly  let  the  young  lady  have  from  your  obedient 
servant,  "Charlottk  Churtwood." 

In  the  corner  was  the  address  ;  "  11,  Chubb'.s  Cottages, 
Basingstoke." 


TMK    liASIN(;sr()KK    POSI  MARK 


n 


1 86 


llikhi  Wacic 


I 


V, 


.j' 


;^^ 


'\ 


it    ^'" 

M'-  "'1 


'!    ;1l 


Hi 

I 


J. 


i! 


8' 


I 


The  happy  accident  of  this  letter  advanced  things  for  lue 
greatly  —  though  it  also  made  me  feel  how  dependent  I  was 
upon  happy  accidents,  where  Hilda  would  have  guessed 
right  at  once  by  mere  knowledge  of  character.  vSlill,  the 
letter  explained  many  things  which  had  hitherto  pu/./.led 
me.  I  had  felt  not  a  little  .surprise  that  Hilda,  wishing  to 
withdraw  from  me  and  leave  no  traces,  should  have  sent  off 
her  farewell  letter  from  Basingstoke  —  so  as  to  let  me  see  at 
once  in  what  direction  she  was  travelling.  Nay,  I  even 
wondered  at  times  whether  she  had  really  posted  it  herself 
at  Basingstoke,  or  given  it  to  .somebody  who  chanced  to  l)e 
going  there  to  post  for  her  as  a  blind.  But  I  did  not  think 
she  would  delil)erately  deceive  me  ;  and,  in  my  opinion,  to 
get  a  letter  posted  at  Basingstoke  would  be  deliberate  de- 
ception, while  to  get  it  posted  in  London  was  mere  vague 
precaution.  I  understood  now  that  she  had  written  it  in  the 
train,  and  then  picked  out  a  likely  person  as  she  passed  to 
take  it  to  Waterloo  for  her. 

Of  course,  I  went  straight  down  to  Basingstoke,  and  called 
at  once  at  Chubb' s  Cottages.  It  was  a  squalid  little  row  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town.  I  found  Charlotte  Churtwood 
herself  exactly  such  a  girl  as  Hilda,  with  her  quick  judg- 
ment of  character,  might  have  hit  upon  for  such  a  purpose. 
She  was  a  conspicuously  honest  and  transparent  country 
servant,  of  the  lumpy  type,  on  her  way  to  London  to  take  a 
place  as  housemaid.  Her  injuries  were  severe,  but  not 
dangerous.  "  The  lady  saw  me  on  the  platform,"  she  said, 
"  and  beckoned  to  me  to  come  to  her.  She  ast  me  where  I 
was  going,  and  I  says,  '  To  London,  miss.'  Says  she,  smil- 
ing kind-like,  '  Could  you  post  a  letter  for  me,  certain  sure  ? ' 
Says  I,  *  You  can  depend  upon  me.'     An'  then  she  give  nie 


I 


II 


,iiiH» 


Letter  with  the  Hasini^stoke  Postmark    187 


the  arf-soveriiiK,  an'  says,  sins  she,  '  Mind,  it  's  :rn'  par- 
tickler  ;  if  the  gentleman  don't  get  it,  'e  '11  fret  'is  'eart  ont.' 
An'  throngh  'aving  a  young  man  o'  my  own,  as  is  a  groom 
at  Andover,  o'  course  I  understood  'er,  sir.     An'  tlien,  feel- 


SlIK    AST    MK    WIll.RK    I    WAS    (.OINC, 


ing  all  full  of  it,  as  yu  may  say,  what  with  the  arf-sovering, 
and  what  with  one  thing  and  what  with  another,  an'  all  of  a 
fluster  with  not  being  used  to  travelling,  I  run  up,  when  the 
train  for  London  come  in,  an'  tried  to  scramble  into  it,  afore 
it  'ad  quite  stopped  moving.  An'  a  guard,  'e  rushes  up,  an' 
'  Staud  back  ! '  says  'e;  '  wait  till  the  train  stops,'  says  'e. 


(      ; 


i8<S 


Hilda  Wade 


I 


'>iti 


I       '"^ 


ii;. 


an'  waves  his  red  flapj  at  me.  Hut  afore  T  could  stand  hack, 
with  one  foot  on  the  step,  tlie  train  sort  of  jumped  away 
from  me,  and  knocked  me  down  like  lliis  ;  and  they  say 
it  '11  be  a  week  now  afore  I  'm  well  enough  to  j;o  on  to 
London.  Hut  I  posted  the  letter  all  the  s:une,  at  Basing- 
stoke station,  as  they  was  carrying  me  off;  an"  I  took  down 
the  addre.ss,  so  as  to  return  the  arf-.sov'ering."  Hilda  w.is 
right,  as  ahvays.  She  had  chosen  instinctively  the  trust- 
worthy person,  —  chasen  her  at  first  sight,  and  hit  the 
bull's  eye. 

"  Do  you  know  what  train  the  lady  was  in  ?  "  I  asked,  as 
she  paused.     "  Where  was  it  going,  did  you  notice  ?  " 

"  It  was  the  vSoutluim})ton  train,  sir.  I  saw  the  ))o.ird  on 
the  carriage." 

That  setMed  the  question.  *'  You  are  a  good  and  an 
honest  girl,"  I  said,  pulling  out  my  purse  ;  "  and  you  came 
to  this  misfortune  through  trying — too  eagerly — to  help  the 
young  lady.  A  ten-pound  note  is  not  overmuch  as  compen- 
sation for  your  accident.  Take  it,  and  get  well.  I  should 
be  sorry  to  think  you  lost  a  good  place  through  your  anxiety 
to  Ijelp  us." 

The  rest  of  my  way  was  plain  sailing  now.  I  hurried  on 
straight  to  Southampton.  There  my  first  visit  was  to  the 
office  of  the  Castle  line.  I  went  to  the  point  at  once.  Was 
there  a  Miss  Wade  among  the  passengers  by  the  Dnnottar 
Castle  f 

No  ;  nobody  of  that  name  on  the  list. 

Had  any  lady  taken  a  passage  at  the  last  moment  ? 

The  clerk  perpended.  Yes  ;  a  lady  had  come  by  the  mail 
train  from  London,  with  no  heavy  baggage,  and  had  gone 
on  board  direct,  taking  what  cabin  she  could  get.     A  young 


Letter  with  the  Basingstoke  l\)stinark    i^^q 


lady  in  K**^*}'-     Qnilc  unprepared.     Oavc  no  name.     Called 
away  in  a  hurry. 

What  sort  of  lady  ? 

Voun^isli  ;  ^ood-lookinj;;  brown  hair  and  eyes,  the  clerk 
thonj;ht;  a  sort  of  creamy  skin  ;  and  a  —  well,  a  mesmeric 
kind  of  j^lance  that  scetned  to  j;o  rii;ht  throni^h  you. 

"  That  will  do,"  I  answered,  sure  now  of  my  ((uarry. 
"  To  which  ])ort  did  she  book  ?  " 

"  To  Cape  Town." 

"  \'ery  well,"  I  .said,  promptly.  "  You  may  reserve  me 
a  ^H)od  berth  in  the  next  outj;oin^  steamer." 

It  was  just  like  Hilda's  impulsive  character  to  rush  off  in 
this  way  at  a  moment's  notice  ;  and  just  like  mine  to  follow 
her.  But  it  piqued  me  a  little  to  think  that,  but  for  the  acci- 
dent of  an  accident,  I  might  never  have  tracked  her  down. 
If  the  letter  had  been  posted  in  London  as  she  intended,  and 
not  at  Basing.stoke,  I  might  have  sought  in  vain  for  her  from 
then  till  Doomsday. 

Ten  days  later,  I  was  afloat  on  the  Channel,  bound  for 
South  Africa. 

I  always  admired  Hilda's  astonishing  insight  into  charac- 
ter and  motive  ;  but  I  never  admired  it  quite  so  profoundly 
as  on  the  glorious  day  when  we  arrived  at  Cape  Town.  I 
was  standing  on  deck,  looking  out  for  the  fir.st  time  in  my 
life  on  that  tremendous  view  —  the  .steep  and  ma.ssive  bulk 
of  Table  Mountain, — a  mere  lump  of  rock,  dropped  loose  from 
the  sky,  with  the  long  white  town  spread  gleaming  at  its 
base,  and  the  silver-tree  plantations  that  cling  to  its  lower 
slopes  and  merge  by  degrees  into  gardens  and  vineyards  — 
when  a  messenger  from  the  shore  came  up  to  me  tentatively. 
Dr.  Cumberledge  ?  "  he  said,  in  an  inquiring  tone. 


(( 


190 


Hilda  Wade 


■4 


Ml:'. 


•if  i 


«l 


if 

ik:  li, 


I  nofUled.     "  Tliat  is  my  iiaiuc." 

"  I  have  a  leltcr  for  you,  sir." 

I  took  it,  ill  j;rcat  surprise.  Who  011  earth  in  Cape  Town 
could  liave  known  I  was  coniiiij;  .■'  I  had  not  a  friend  to  my 
knowledge  in  the  colony.  I  >;lance(l  at  the  envelo[)e.  My 
wonder  deepened.  That  pre.scient  brain  !  It  was  Hilda's 
hand.vritiiiR. 

I  tore  it  open  and  read  : 

"  Mv  DjvAR  IIriu;KT,  — I  A'ttora  you  will  conic  ;  I  Anoh'  you  will  fol- 
low inc.  So  I  iiiii  IcaviiiK  this  IclUr  .it  Doiiiild  Curric  iSc  Co.'s  oflirc, 
j;iviiiK  their  aKciu  instruclions  to  hiiiid  it  to  you  nn  soon  as  you  reach 
Cnpc  Town.  I  am  (|iiitc  sure  you  will  track  inc  so  far  at  least;  I  un- 
derstand your  teinperanient.  lUil  I  he;.!  y<'i'.  I  inipW)re  you,  to  ^n  uo 
further.  You  will  tuin  niy  plan  if  you  <1().  And  I  still  adhere  to  it. 
It  is  j^ood  of  you  to  come  so  far  ;  I  cannot  hlaine  you  for  that.  I  know 
your  motives.  lUit  do  not  try  to  find  me  out.  I  warn  you,  before- 
hand, it  will  be  quite  useless.  I  have  made  up  my  mind.  I  have  an 
object  in  life,  and,  dear  as  you  are  to  me — //lal  I  will  not  pretend  to 
deny — I  can  never  allow  c\<:\\  you  to  interfere  with  it.  So  be  warned 
iu  time.    Go  back  quietly  by  the  next  steamer. 

"  Your  ever  attached  and  grateful, 

••Hilda." 

I  read  it  twice  through  with  a  little  thrill  of  joy.  Did  any 
man  ever  court  .so  strange  a  love  ?  Her  very  strangeness 
drew  me.  Rut  go  back  by  the  next  steamer  !  I  felt  sure  of 
one  thing  :  Hilda  was  far  too  good  a  judge  of  character  to 
believe  that  I  was  likely  to  obey  that  mandate. 

I  will  not  trouble  you  with  the  remaining  stages  of  my 
qtiest.  Except  for  the  slowness  of  South  African  mail 
coaches,  they  were  comparatively  easy.  It  is  not  so  hard  to 
track  strangers  in  Cape  Town  as  strangers  in  London.  I 
followed  Hilda  to  her  hotel,  and  from  her  hotel  up  country, 
stage    after    stage — jolted    by    rail,     worse     jolted      by 


Letter  uitli  tlic  I^asinu;st(>kc  Postmark    191 


imile-\v:i^jKo»  -^  J^Uiiiri^K.  iiwiitirin^,  iiKiuirin^  —  till  I 
Icariiecl  at  Inst  she  was  souicwhcrc  in  Kliodcsia. 

That  is  a  big  address  ;  hut  it  docs  not  cover  as  many 
n;iincs  as  it  covers  S(iuarc  miles.  In  lime  I  found  her. 
vSlill,  it  took  time  ;  and  liefore  \ve  met,  Ililihi  liad  hail 
leisure  to  settle  do  vn  (|uietly  to  her  new  existence.  People 
in  Rhodesia  had  nt>ted  her  coining,  as  a  new  ]K)rtent,  he- 
cause  of  one  strange  peculiarit)'.  vShe  was  the  only  woman 
of  means  who  had  ever  ^one  up  of  her  own  free  will  to  Rho- 
de. I.  Other  women  had  jjone  there  to  accompany  their 
husbands,  or  to  earn  their  livings  ;  but  that  a  lady  should 
freely  select  that  half-baked  land  as  a  pl:ice  of  residence  —  a 
lady  of  position,  with  all  the  world  before  her  where  to  choose 
—  that  puzzled  the  Rhodesians.  vSo  she  was  a  marked  per- 
son. Most  people  .solved  the  vexed  ])r()l)lem,  indeed,  by 
.sn<j:};esting  that  .she  had  desiji^us  njj^ainst  the  stern  celibacy 
of  a  leading  vSouth  African  politician.  "  Depend  upon  it," 
they  said,  "  it  's  Rhodes  she  's  after."  The  moment  I  ar- 
rived at  Salisbury,  and  stated  my  object  in  coming,  all  the 
world  in  the  new  town  was  ready  to  assist  me.     The  lady 

« 

was  to  be  found  (vaguely  speaking)  on  a  young  farm  to  the 
north — a  budding  farm,  whose  general  direction  was  expans- 
ively indicated  to  me  by  a  wave  of  the  arm,  with  South 
African  uncertainty. 

I  bought  a  pony  at  Salisbury  —  a  pretty  little  seasoned 
sorrel  mare — and  set  out  to  find  Hilda.  My  way  lay  over  a 
brand-new  road,  or  what  passes  for  a  road  in  South  Africa  — 
very  soft  and  lumpy,  like  an  English  cart-track.  I  am  a  fair 
cross-country  rider  in  our  own  Midlands,  but  I  never  rode  a 
more  tedious  journey  than  that  one.  I  had  crawled  several 
miles  under  a  blazing  sun  along  the  shadeless  new  track,  on 


m 


l()2 


Hilda  Wade 


i\    : 


m 


my  African  pony,  wlicii,  lo  my  Mttrprlsc  T  saw,  of  all  si>;IitH  in 
the  world,  n  l)icyclc  coniitiK  towarns  ini*. 

I  could  hardly  hclievc  my  eyes.  Civilisation  indeed  !  A 
hieyele  in  these  remotest  wilds  of  Africa  ! 

I  had  been  picking  my  way  for  some  hours  through  a 
desolate  plateau  the  hi^h  veldt  -ahout  five  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea  level,  and  entirely  treeless.  In  places,  to  be 
sure,  a  few  low  bushes  of  prickly  aspect  ro.se  in  ♦angled 
cliunps;  but  for  the  nu)st  part  the  arid  tableland  was  covered 
by  a  thick  growth  of  short  brown  grass,  about  nine  inches 
high,  burnt  up  in  the  sun,  and  most  weari.some  to  look  at. 
The  distressing  nakedness  of  a  new  country  confronted  n>e. 
Here  and  there  a  bald  farm  or  two  had  been  literally  pegged 
out  —  the  pegs  were  almost  all  one  saw  of  them  as  yet  ;  the 
fields  were  in  the  future.  Here  and  there,  again,  a  scattered 
range  of  low  granite  hills,  known  locally  as  kopjes  —  red, 
rocky  prominences,  flaunting  in  the  sun.shine  —  diversified 
the  distance.  But  the  road  itself,  such  as  it  was,  lay  all  on 
the  high  plain,  looking  down  now  and  again  into  gorges  or 
kloofs,  wooded  on  their  slopes  with  scrubby  trees,  and  com- 
paratively well-watered.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  crude,  un- 
fini.shed  land,  the  mere  sight  of  a  bicycle,  bumping  over  the 
rubbly  road,  was  a  sufficient  surprise  ;  but  my  astonishment 
reached  a  climax  when  I  saw,  as  it  drew  near,  that  it  was 
ridden  by  a  woman  ! 

One  moment  later  I  had  burst  into  a  wild  cry,  and  rode 
forward  to  her  hurriedly.  "  Hilda!  "  I  shouted  aloud,  in  my 
excitement:    "  Hilda  !  " 

She  stepped  lightly  from  her  pedals,  as  if  it  had  been  in  the 
park  :  head  erect  and  proud  ;  eyes  liquid,  lu.strous.  I  dis- 
mounted, trembling,  and  stood  beside  her.     In  the  wild  joy 


\ 


iK'its  in 
c(l  !    A 


roii^li  a 
and  feet 
;s,  to  he 

covered 
-»  inches 
loolv  at. 
ted  nie. 
pcKKed 
et  ;  the 
?attered 
4  —  red, 
ersified 
y  all  on 
)rges  Ol- 
id coni- 
de,  nn- 
ver  the 
shnient 
it  was 

id  rode 
,  in  my 


W 


ill 

> 
•J 
:a 

at 
S 

Li 

o 
u 


0^ 


1  in  the 

I  dis- 

ild  joy 


!ii 


ill 


I 


1*1 


i:' 


1 1 « 


r 


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pi 


194 


llikla  Wacic 


of  the  inoinciit,  for  the  first  tiiiu'  in  my  life,  I  kishol  hvr  fcr 
veiitly.  Hilda  took  the  kisM.  uureprovinK.  She  did  not 
nttenipt  to  refuse  inc. 

"  »So  yoti  hnvc  come  nt  Inst!  "  slie  murmured,  with  a  ^low 
on  her  face,  lialf  ueslliuK  towards  me,  half  wilhdrawiu^;,  as 
if  two  wills  tore  her  in  diflereut  directions.  "  I  havi-  been 
expecting  you  for  soine  days;  and,  somehow,  today,  I  was 
almost  certain  you  were  comiiij;  !  " 

••Then  you  are  noi  an^ry  with  nie  ?  "  I  cried.  "  Vou 
reujember,  you  forbade  me  !  " 

•'  Angry  with  you  ?  Dear  Hubert,  could  I  ever  be  auKry 
with  >ou,  especially  for  thus  showing  me  your  devotion  and 
yoUi  trust  ?  I  am  never  angry  with  you.  When  one  knows, 
one  understands.  I  have  thought  of  you  .so  often  ;  .some- 
times, alone  here  in  this  raw  new  land,  I  have  longed  for 
you  to  come.  It  is  inconsistent  of  me,  of  course  ;  but  I  am 
so  .solitary,  so  lonely  !  " 

"  And  yet  you  begged  me  not  to  follow  you  !  " 

She  looked  up  at  me  shyly  —  I  was  not  accustomed  to  see 
Hilda  shy.  Her  e>  es  gazed  deep  into  mine  beneath  the  long, 
soft  lashes.  "  I  begged  you  not  to  follow  me,"  she  repeated, 
a  strange  gladness  in  her  tone.  "  Yes,  dear  Hubert,  I 
begged  you  —  and  I  meant  it.  Cannot  you  understand  that 
sometimes  one  hopes  a  thing  may  never  happen  —  and  is 
supremely  happy  because  it  happens,  in  spite  of  one  ?  I  have 
a  purpo.se  in  life  for  which  I  live  :  I  live  for  it  .still.  Kor  its 
sake  I  told  you  you  must  not  come  to  me.     Yet  you  //(!:'(' 

come,  against  my  orders  ;  and "  .she  paused,  and  drew  a 

deep  sigh—  '*  oh,  Hubert,  I  thank  you  for  daring  to  disobey 
me  !" 

I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom.    She  allowed  me,  half  resisting. 


l^ftttT  with  till*  hasifiL^^'^tokr  IN>stni;irk    195 

•'  I  am  too  wvnk,"  Mho  miinntircd.  "  Only  lliin  morning, 
I  nindc  up  iiiv  iiiitid  that  wIicmi  I  saw  you  I  woul'l  iinplr>ru 
you  to  return  at  oucc.  Ami  now  tliat  you  art  lin.ru  — '* 
hIic  laid  licr  little  liaud  i(>nridiiiy;ly  in  mine—"  hcc  Iiow  fool- 
ish I  am  !       I  oanuDt  dismis.s  yoii." 

"  Which  means  to  .say.  Hilda,  that,  after  all,  you  arentill  a 
woman  !  " 

••  A  woman  ;  oh,  yes  ;  very  nnuh  a  w«>man  !  Uu')ert,  I 
love  you  ;   I  half  wish  I  did  not." 

•'  Why,  darling  ■'' '      I  ilrcw  her  to  mo. 

"  Because  -if  I  did  not,  I  could  send  you  nway^ — so  easily! 
As  it  is  -I  caiuiot  let  you  stop  -and  ...  I  catniot  dis- 
miss you." 

"  Then  divide  it,"  I  cried  K^iily;  "  ^l"  neither;  come  away 
with  me  !  " 

'*  No,  no  ;  nor  that,  either.  I  will  not  stultify  my  whole 
pa.st  life.     I  will  not  dishonour  my  dear  father's  memory." 

I  looked  around  for  .something  to  which  to  tether  my 
horse.  A  bridle  is  in  one's  way  —  when  one  has  to  discuss 
important  business.  There  was  really  nothinj;  about  that 
.seemed  fit  for  the  purpose.  Hilda  .saw  what  I  ,souj;ht,  and 
pointed  nmtely  to  a  stunted  bush  beside  a  bi^  K^'i'iite  boulder 
which  roseabrnitly  from  the  dead  level  of  the  grass,  afTording 
a  little  shade  from  that  sweltering  sunlight.  I  lied  my  mare 
to  the  gnarled  root  —  it  was  the  only  part  big  enough  —  and 
sat  down  by  Hilda's  .side,  under  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock 
in  a  thirsty  land.  I  realised  at  that  moment  the  force  and 
appropriateness  of  the  Psalmist's  .simile.  The  sun  beat 
fiercely  on  the  seeding  gra.sses.  Away  on  the  .southern 
horizon  we  could  faintly  i)erceive  the  floating  yellow  haze  of 
the  prairie  fires  lit  by  the  Mashonas. 


196 


Hilda  Wade 


ill|| 


f 


,r^ 


"  Then  j'ou  knew  I  would  come  ?  "  I  began,  as  she  seated 
herself  on  the  burnt-up  herbage,  while  my  hand  stole  into 
hers,  to  nestle  there  naturally. 

She  pressed  it  in  return.  "  Oh,  yes;  I  knew  you  would 
come,"  she  answered,  with  that  strange  ring  of  confidence  in 
her  voice.     "  Of  course  you  got  my  letter  at  Cape  Town  ?" 

"  I  did,  Hilda  —  and  I  wondered  at  you  more  than  ever  as 
I  read  it.  But  if  you  km:*.'  I  would  come,  why  write  to 
prevent  me  ?  " 

Her  eyes  had  their  mysterious  far-away  air.  She  looked 
out  upon  infinity.  "  Well,  I  wanted  to  do  my  best  to  turn 
you  aside,"  she  .said,  slowly.  "  One  must  always  do  one's 
best,  even  when  one  feels  and  believes  it  is  useless.  That 
surely  is  the  first  clause  in  a  doctor's  or  a  nunse's  rubric." 

"  But  7i'/iy  did  n't  you  want  me  to  come  ?  "  I  persisted. 
"  Why  fight  against  your  own  heart  ?  Hilda,  I  am  sure  — 
I  k?i07(.>  you  love  me." 

Her  bosom  rose  and  fell.  Her  eyes  dilated.  **  lyove 
you  ?  "  she  cried,  looking  away  over  the  bushy  ridges,  as  if 
afraid  to  trust  herself.  *'  Oh,  yes,  Hubert,  I  love  you!  It 
is  not  for  t/iaf  that  I  wish  to  avoid  you.  Or,  rather,  it  is  just 
because  of  that.  I  cannot  endure  to  spoil  your  life  —  by  a 
fruitless  affection." 

"  Why  fruitless  ?  "  I  asked,  leaning  forward. 

She  crossed  her  hands  resignedly.  "  You  know  all  by 
this  time,"  she  an.swered.  "  Sebastian  would  tell  you,  of 
course,  when  you  went  to  announce  that  you  were  leaving 
Nathaniel's.  He  could  not  do  otherwise  ;  it  is  the  outcome 
of  his  temperament  —  an  integral  part  of  his  nature." 

**  Hilda,"  I  cried,  '*  you  are  a  witch  !  How  co2ild  you 
know  that  ?     I  can't  imagine." 


t-   I 


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Hi, 


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198 


Hilda  Wade 


She  smiled  her  restrained,  Chaldean  stnile.  **  Because  I 
hioii'  Sciiastian,"  she  answered,  quietly.  I  caii  read  that 
man  to  the  core.  He  is  simple  as  a  book.  His  composition 
is  plain,  straightforward,  quite  natural,  uniform.  There  are 
no  twists  and  turns  in  him.  Once  learn  the  key,  and  it  dis- 
closes everything,  like  an  open  sesafiie.  He  has  a  gigantic 
intellect,  a  burning  thirst  for  knowledge  ;  one  love,  one 
hobby — .science  ;  and  no  moial  instincts.  He  goes  straight 
for  his  ends  ;  and  whatever  comes  in  his  way,"  she  dug  her 
little  heel  in  the  brown  soil,  "  he  tramples  on  it  as  ruthlessly 
as  a  child  will  trample  on  a  worm  or  a  beetle." 

"  And  yet,"  I  said,  "  he  is  .so  great." 

"  Yes,  great,  I  grant  you;  but  the  easiest  character  to  un- 
ravel that  I  have  ever  met.  It  is  calm,  austere,  unbending, 
yet  not  in  the  least  degree  complex.  He  has  the  impassioned 
temperament,  pushed  to  its  highest  pitch  ;  the  temperament 
that  runs  deep,  with  irresistible  force  ;  but  the  passion  that  in- 
spires him,  that  carries  him  away  headlong,  as  love  carries 
some  men,  is  a  rare  and  abstract  one  —  the  passion  of 
science." 

I  gazed  at  her  as  she  spoke,  with  a  feeling  akin  to  awe. 
"  It  must  destroy  the  plot-interest  of  life  for  you,  Hilda,"  I 
cried — out  there  in  the  vast  void  of  that  wild  African  plateau 
— "  to  foresee  so  well  what  each  person  will  do  —  how  each 
will  act  under  such  given  circumstances." 

She  pulled  a  bent  of  grass  and  plucked  off  its  dry  spikelets 
one  by  one.  *  *  Perhaps  so, ' '  she  answered,  after  a  meditative 
pause  ;  "  though,  of  course,  all  natures  are  not  equally 
simple.  Only  with  great  souls  can  you  be  sure  beforehand 
like  that,  for  good  or  for  evil.  It  is  essential  to  anything 
worth  calling  character  that  one  should  be  able  to  predict 


Letter  with  the  Hasinustoke  Postmark    199 


in  what  way  it  will  act  under  given  circumstances  —  to  feel 
certain,  '  This  man  will  do  nothinj;  small  or  mean,'  '  That 
one  could  never  act  dishonestly,  or  speak  deceitfully.'  Hut 
smaller  natures  ar^j  more  complex.  They  defy  analysis,  be- 
cause their  motives  are  not  consistent." 

"  Most  people  think  to  be  complex  is  to  be  great,"  I 
objected. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  That  is  quite  a  mistake,"  she  an- 
swered. "  Great  natures  are  simple,  and  relatively  predict- 
able, since  their  motives  balance  o.ie  another  justly.  vSmall 
natures  are  complex,  and  hard  to  predict,  ))ecause  small 
passions,  small  jealousies,  small  discords  and  perturbations 
come  in  at  all  moments,  and  override  for  a  time  the  perman- 
ent underlying  factors  of  character.  Great  natures,  good 
or  bad,  are  equably  poised  ;  small  natures  let  petty  motives 
intervene  to  upset  their  balance." 

"Then  you  knew  I  would  come,"  I  exclaimed,  half 
pleased  to  find  I  belonged  inferentially  to  her  higher 
category. 

Her  eyes  beamed  on  me  with  a  beautiful  light.  "  Knew 
you  would  come  ?  Oh,  yes.  I  begged  you  not  to  come  ; 
but  I  felt  sure  you  were  too  deeply  in  earnest  to  obey  me.  I 
asked  a  friend  in  Cape  Town  to  telegraph  your  arrival  ;  and 
almost  ever  since  the  telegram  reached  me  I  have  been  ex- 
pecting you  and  awaiting  you." 

"  So  you  believed  in  me  ?  " 

"Implicitly  —  as  you  in  me.  That  is  the  worst  of  it, 
Hubert.  If  you  did  Jiot  believe  in  me,  I  could  have  told  you 
all  — and  then,  you  would  have  left  me.  But,  as  it  is,  you 
knozf  all  —  and  yet,  you  want  to  cling  to  me." 

"  You  know  I  know  all  —  because  Sebastian  told  me  ?  " 


'i;- 


m  m 


2CXD 


Hilda  Wade 


<  < 


Yes;  and  I  think  I  even  know  ho^v  you  answered  him." 

"  How?" 

She  paused.  The  cahn  smile  lighted  up  her  face  once 
more.  Then  she  drew  out  a  pencil.  "  You  think  life  nuist 
lack  plot-interest  for  me,"  she  began,  .slowly,  "  because, 
with  certain  natures,  I  can  partially  guess  beforehand  what 
is  coming.  But  have  you  not  observed  that,  in  reading  a 
novel,  part  of  the  pleasure  you  feel  arises  from  your  conscious 
anticipation  of  the  end,  and  your  satisfaction  in  seeing  that 
you  anticipated  correctly  ?  Or  part,  sometimes,  from  the 
occasional  unexpectedness  of  the  real  dinoiicmcnt?  Well, 
life  is  like  that.  I  enjoy  observing  my  successes,  and,  in  a 
way,  my  failures.  Let  me  show  you  what  I  mean.  I  think 
I  know  what  you  said  to  Sebastian — not  the  words,  of  course, 
but  the  pui'^ort;  and  I  will  write  it  down  now  for  you.  Set 
down  jw^r  version,  too.     And  then  we  will  compare  them." 

It  was  a  crucial  test.  We  both  wrote  for  a  minute  or  two. 
Somehow,  in  Hilda's  presence,  I  forgot  at  once  the  strange- 
ness of  the  scene,  the  weird  oddity  of  the  moment.  That 
sombre  plain  disappeared  for  me.  I  was  only  aware  that  I 
was  with  Hilda  once  more — and  therefore  in  Paradise.  Pison 
and  Gihon  watered  the  desolate  land.  Whatever  she  did 
seemed  to  me  supremely  right.  If  she  had  proposed  to  me 
to  begin  a  ponderous  work  on  Medical  Jurisprudence,  under 
the  shadow  of  the  big  rock,  I  should  have  begun  it  incon- 
tinently. 

She  handed  me  her  slip  of  paper;  I  took  it  and  read:  "  Se- 
bastian told  you  I  was  Dr.  Yorke- Ban  Herman's  daughter. 
And  you  answered,  *  If  so,  Yorke-Bannerman  was  innocent, 
and  you  are  the  poisoner.'     Is  not  that  correct  ?  " 

I  handed  her  in  answer  my  own  paper.     She  read  it  with 


Letter  witli  the  Basingstoke  Postmark   201 

a  faint  flush.  When  she  t^ame  to  tlic  words;  "  ICilher  she  is 
not  Yorke-Hamierin:urs(lauj;hter;  or  else,  Vorke-Iiannernian 
was  not  a  poisoner,  and  someone  else  was — I  nii.i;ht  put  a 
name  to  him,"  she  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  j;reat  rush  of  long- 


MY   HUBERT  ! 


suppressed  feeling,  and  clasped  me  passionately.  "  My 
Hubert !  "  she  cried,  "  I  read  you  aright.  I  knew  it  !  I 
was  sure  of  you  ! ' ' 

I  folded  her  in  my  arms,  there,  on  the  rusty-red  South 


:t> 


Mi 


202 


Hilda  Wade 


African  desert.  *'  Then,  Hilda  dear,"  I  murmured,  *'  you 
will  consent  to  marry  me  ?  " 

The  words  brought  her  back  to  herself.  She  unfolded  my 
arms  with  slow  reluctance.  "  No,  dearest,"  she  .said,  ear- 
nestly, with  a  face  where  pride  fought  hard  against  love. 
"  That  is  7i'/ij',  above  all  things,  I  did  not  want  you  to  follow 
me.  I  love  you  ;  I  trust  you  :  you  love  me  ;  you  tru.st  me. 
But  I  never  will  marry  anyone  till  I  have  .succeeded  in  clear- 
ing my  father's  memory.  I  A'nOiC  be  did  not  do  it  ;  I  ^-^1070 
Seba.stian  did.  But  that  is  nol  »:nough.  I  must  prove  it,  I 
mu.st  prove  it !  " 

*'  I  believe  it  already,"  I  an.swered.  "  What  need,  then, 
to  prove  it  ?  " 

"To  you,  Hubert?  Oh,  no;  not  to  you.  There  I  am 
safe.  But  to  the  world  that  condemned  him  —  condemned 
him  untried.     I  must  vindicate  him  ;  I  must  clear  him  !  " 

I  bent  my  face  close  to  hers.  "  But  may  I  not  marry  you 
first  ?  "  I  asked  —  "  and  after  that,  1  can  help  you  to  clear 
him." 

She  gazed  at  me  fearlessly.  "  No,  no!  "  she  cried,  clasping 
her  hands;  "  much  as  I  love  you,  dear  Hubert,  I  cannot  con- 
sent to  it.  I  am  too  proud  !  —  too  proud  !  I  will  not  allow 
the  world  to  say — not  even  to  say  falsely  " — her  face  flushed 
crimson ;  her  voice  dropped  low — '  *  I  will  not  allow  them  to  say 
those  hateful  words,  '  He  married  a  murderer's  daughter.'  " 

I  bowed  my  head.  "As  you  will,  my  darling,"  I  an- 
swered. "I  am  content  to  wait.  I  trust  you  in  this,  too. 
Some  day,  we  will  prove  it." 

And  all  this  time,  preoccupied  as  I  was  with  these  deeper 
concerns,  I  had  not  even  asked  where  Hilda  lived,  or  what 
she  was  doing  ! 


CHAPTKR  VII 


THK   Kl'ISODK  OF  TIIK  JiTONIv   THAT   I.OOKKD   ABOUT   IT 


HILDA  took  me  back  with  her   to  the  ein])ryo  farm 
where  she  had  pitched  her  tent  for  the  moment  ;  a 
rough,  wild  place.     It  lay  close  to  the  main  roaa 
from  Salisbury  to  Chimoio. 

Setting  aside  the  inevitable  rawness  and  newness  of  all 
things  Rhodesian,  however,  the  situation  itself  was  not 
wholly  unpicturesque.  A  ramping  rock  or  tor  of  granite, 
which  I  should  judge  at  a  rough  guess  to  extend  to  an  acre 
in  size,  sp  aug  abruptly  from  the  brown  grass  of  the  upland 
plain.  It  rose  like  a  huge  boulder.  Its  summit  was  crowned 
by  the  covered  grave  of  some  old  Kaffir  chief — a  rude  cairn 
of  big  stones  under  a  thatched  awning.  At  the  foot  of  this 
jagged  and  cleft  rock  the  farmhouse  nestled  —  four  square 
walls  of  wattle-and-daub,  sheltered  by  its  mass  from  the 
sweeping  winds  of  the  South  African  plateau.  A  stream 
brought  water  from  a  spring  close  by  :  in  front  of  the  house 
— rare  sight  in  that  thirsty  land — spread  a  garden  of  flowers. 
It  was  an  oasis  in  the  desert.  But  the  desert  itself  stretched 
grimly  all  round.  I  could  never  quite  decide  how  far  the 
oasis  was  caused  by  the  water  from  the  spring,  and  how  far 
by  Hilda's  presence. 

303 


I    1- 


ao4 


Hilda  Wailc 


m 


I -'Hi 

•hi 

;  t  II  4  >i 

;r     ■ 


**  Then  you  live  here  ?  "  I  cried,  KazitiR  round — my  voice, 
I  suppose,  betraying  my  hitent  sense  of  the  unworthiness  of 
the  position. 

"  For  the  present,"  Hilda  answered,  smiling.  "  Vou 
know,  Hubert,  I  have  no  al)idiny;  city  r.iiywhere,  till  my 
Purpose  is  fulfilled.  I  came  here  because  Rhodesia  seemed 
the  farthest  spot  on  earth  where  a  wh'te  woman  just  now 
could  safely  penetrate  —  in  order  to  get  away  from  you  and 
Sebastian." 

"  That  is  an  unkind  conjunction  !  "  I  exclaimed,  redden 
ing. 

"  Hut  I  mean  it."  she  answered,  with  a  waywaid  little 
nod.  "  I  wanted  breathing-space  to  form  fresh  plans.  I 
wanted  to  get  ^lear  away  for  a  time  from  all  who  knew  me. 
And  this  promised  best.  .  .  .  But  nowadays,  really,  one 
is  never  safe  from  intrusion  anywhere." 

"  You  are  cruel,  Hilda  !" 

"Oh,  no.  You  deserve  it.  I  asked  you  not  to  come  — 
and  you  came  in  spite  of  me.  I  have  treated  you  very  nicely 
under  the  circumstances,  I  think.  I  have  behaved  like  an 
angel.  The  question  is  now,  what  ought  I  to  do  next  ? 
You  have  up.set  my  plans  so." 

"  Upset  your  plans  ?     How  ?  " 

"Dear  Hubert," — she  turned  to  me  with  an  indulgent 
smile, — "  for  a  clever  man,  you  are  really  foo  foolish  !  Can't 
you  see  that  you  have  betrayed  my  whereabouts  to  Sebas- 
tian ?  /crept  away  secretly,  like  a  thief  in  the  night,  giving 
no  name  or  place  ;  and,  having  the  world  to  ransack,  he 
might  have  found  it  hard  to  track  me  ;  for  /le  had  not  jvur 
clue  of  the  Basingstoke  letter  —  nor  j'our  reason  for  seeking 
me.     But  now  that  j'oic  have  followed  me  openly,  with  your 


The  Stone  that  Looked  al)out  it       205 


name  blazoned  forth  in  the  company's  passenger  hsts,  and 
yonr  traces  left  i)lain  in  liotels  and  stages  across  the  map  of 
South  Africa— why,  the  spoor  is  easy.     If  Sebastian  cares  to 


"I    ASKED   YOU    NOT    TO   COMK,    AND    YOU   CAME    IN    SPITK    OK    MK. 

find  US,  he  can  follow  the  scent  all  through  without 
trouble." 

"  I  never  thought  of  that  !  "  I  cried,  aghast. 

She  was  forbearance  itself.  "  No,  I  knew  you  would  never 
think  of  it.    You  are  a  man,  you  see.  I  counted  that  in.    I  was 


w 


206 


Hilda  Watic 


1 

j 
I 


ill 


afraid  from  the  first  you  wouUl  wreck  all  by  fullowiiiK 
me." 

I  was  mutely  penite'it.  "  And  yet,  you  forgive  me, 
Hilda?" 

Her  eyes  l)eamed  tenderness.  "  To  know  all,  is  to  forgive 
all,"  she  answered.  "  I  have  to  remind  you  of  that  .so  often  ! 
How  can  I  help  forgiving,  when  I  know  rt7/i' you  came  — 
what  .spur  it  was  that  drove  you  ?  lUit  it  is  the  future  we 
have  to  think  of  now,  not  the  past.  And  I  uui.st  wait  and 
reflect.     I  have  /lo  plan  just  at  present." 

"  What  arc  you  doing  at  this  farm  ?  "  1  ga/ed  round  at 
it,  dissatisfied. 

"  I  hoard  here,"  Hilda  answered,  amused  at  my  crest- 
fallen face.  "  Hut,  of  cour.se,  I  cannot  he  idle  ;  so  I  have 
found  work  to  do.  I  ride  out  on  my  bicycle  to  two  or  three 
isolated  houses  about,  and  give  lessons  to  children  in  this 
desolate  place,  who  would  otherwi.se  grow  up  ignorant.  It 
fills  my  time,  and  supplies  me  with  something  besides  my- 
self to  think  al)out." 

"  And  what  am  /to  do  ?  "  I  cried,  oppressed  with  a  sud- 
den .sense  of  helplessness. 

She  laughed  at  me  outright.  "  And  is  this  the  first  mo- 
ment that  that  difficulty  has  occurred  to  you  ?  "  .she  asked, 
gaily.  "  You  have  hurried  all  the  way  from  London  to 
Rhodesia  without  the  slightest  idea  of  what  you  mean  to  do 
now  you  have  got  here  ?  " 

I  laughed  at  myself  in  turn.  "  Upon  my  word,  Hilda," 
I  cried,  "  I  set  out  to  find  you.  Beyond  the  desire  to  find 
you,  I  had  no  plan  in  my  head.  That  was  an  end  in  itself. 
My  thoughts  went  no  farther." 

She  gazed  at  me  half  saucily.     *'  Then  don't  you  think, 


i 


The  Stone*  that  Looked  about  it       20; 


HJr,  the  best  tliifip:  yoti  can  do,  iimv  yon  hair  fmuHl  mo,  in  — 
to  turn  Itack  and  k<>  IxMnc  a>;ain  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  man,"  I  said,  promptly,  taking'  a  firm  stand. 
"  And  yon  arc  a  jnd^i^  of  cliaractcr.  If  yon  really  mean  to 
tell  mc  yon  think  l/mt  likely  —  well,  I  shall  have  a  lower 
opinion  of  your  insight  into  men  than  I  have  l>een  uecus- 
tomed  to  harbour." 

Her  .smile  was  not  wholly  without  a  touch  of  triumph. 

•'  In  that  case,"  she  went  on,  "  I  .suppose  the  otdy  alter- 
native is  for  you  to  remain  here." 

"  That  would  appear  to  ho  loj;ic,"  T  repb'ed.  "  Hut  what 
can  I  do  ?    vSet  up  in  practice  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  nuich  openin^^"  .she  answered.  "If  you 
ask  my  advice,  I  should  say  there  is  otdy  one  thing  to  be 
done  in  Rhodesia  just  now—  turn  farmer." 

"  It  is  done,"  I  answered,  with  my  usual  impetuo.sity. 
"  ^xwctyoH  say  the  word,  I  am  a  farmer  already.  I  feel  an 
interest  in  oats  that  is  .simply  alxsorbing.  What  steps  oujjht 
I  to  take  first  in  my  present  condition  ?  " 

vShe  looked  at  me,  all  brown  with  the  dust  of  my  long  ride. 
"  I  would  suggest,"  she  said  slowly,  "  a  good  wa.sh,  and 
.some  dinner." 

"  Hilda,"  I  cried,  surveying  my  boots,  or  what  was  visible 
of  them,  "  that  is  really  oXQxer  of  you.  A  vva.sh  and  some 
dinner  !  So  practical,  so  timely  !  The  very  thing  !  I  will 
see  to  it." 

Before  night  fell,  I  had  arranged  everything.  I  was  to  buy 
the  next  farm  from  the  owner  of  the  one  where  Hilda  lodged ; 
I  was  also  to  learn  the  rudiments  of  South  African  agriculture 
from  him  for  a  valuable  consideration  ;  and  I  was  to  lodge  in 
his  house  while  my  own  was  building.     He  gave  me  his  views 


i 


ioS 


Hilda  Wade 


(t  f 


on  lilt*  ciiltivntion  of  oats.  He  ^nvc  tliciii  at  hoiuc  IciiKtli^ 
more  U-it^tli  tliaii  pcrspiotiily.  I  knew  aotliiiiK  about  oatM, 
Have  lliiit  lliey  were  employed  in  llie  m.itmf.icture  ol"  porridge 
—  which  I  (litest  ;  Imt  I  was  to  he  near  Hilda  once  more,  and 
I  was  prepared  to  undertake  the  superintendence  of  the  oat 


HE   tIAVL    MK    Ills    VIKWS   ON    lllK   CILTIVAIION    ni-    oATS. 


from  its  hirth  to  its  reaping  if  only  I  might  he  allowed  to 
live  so  close  to  Hilda. 

The  farmer  and  his  wife  were  Boers,  but  they  spoke  Eng- 
lish. Mr.  Jan  Willem  Klaas  himself  was  a  fine  .specimen  of 
the  breed  —  tall,  erect,  broad-.shouldered,  and  genial.  Mrs. 
Klaas,  his  wife,  was  mainly  suggestive,  in  mind  and  person, 
of  suet-pudding.  There  was  one  prattling  little  girl  of  three 
years  old,  by  name  Sannie,  a  most  engaging  child;  and  also 
a  chubby  baby. 


'I'lu'  Stofu*  tliat  I.ooki'd  .ilnmt  it       209 


II 


III  arc  betrothed,  ofcoiirMc  ?  "  Mrs.  Kl.ias  saiil  to  Hilda 
I)c'f<)rc  inc,  with  the  curious  tacllcssucsH  of  licr  race,  wlicu  we 
made  our  first  arrauKt-'inciit. 

Hilda's  face  tluslied.  "No;  we  are  notliiu^  to  one 
another,"  .she  answered  which  was  only  true  lorinnlly. 
"  Dr.  Cund)erledKe  had  a  post  at  tlie  same  hospital  in  I<on* 
don  where  I  was  a  inirMc  ;  and  he  thought  he  would  like  to 
try  Rhodesia.     That  is  all." 

Mrs.  Klaas  jja/ed  from  one  to  other  of  us  suspiciously. 
"  You  luiKli^h  are  strange  !  "  .she  answered,  with  a  conipla- 
ciiil  little  .shruj.;.  "  Hut  there-  from  lviiro|  c  !  Your  way.s, 
wc  know,  are  dillerent." 

Ililila  dill  not  attempt  to  explain.  It  wouM  have  been 
impo.ssihle  to  make  the  good  soul  understand.  Her  hori/oti 
was  so  simple.  She  was  a  Iiarndess  housewife,  given  mostly 
to  dy.spcpsia  and  the  care  of  her  little  ones.  Hilda  had  won 
her  heart  by  unfeigned  admiration  for  the  chubby  baby.  To 
a  mother,  that  covers  a  multitude  of  eccentricities,  such  as 
one  expects  to  find  in  incomprehensible  I^nglish.  Mrs. 
Klaas  i)Ut  up  with  me  becau.se  .she  liked  Hilda. 

We  .spent  some  months  together  on  Klaas's  farm.  It  was 
a  dreary  place,  save  for  Hilda.  The  bare  daub-andvvattle 
walls  ;  the  clumps  of  misshapen  and  dusty  prickly-pears  that 
girt  round  the  thatched  huts  of  the  Kaffir  workpeople  ;  the 
stone-penned  sheep-kraals,  and  the  corrugated  iron  roof  of 
the  bald  stable  for  the  waggon  oxen  —  all  was  as  crude  and 
ugly  as  a  new  country  can  make  things.  It  seemed  to  me  a 
desecration  that  Hilda  .should  live  in  such  an  tnifinished  land 
—  Hilda,  whom  I  imagined  as  moving  by  nature  through 
broad  English  parks,  with  Klizabethan  cottages  and  im- 
memorial oaks  —  Hilda,  whose  proper  atmosphere  seemed  to 


1    ! 

•    I 

i 


14 


T 


I 


2IO 


Hilda  Wad( 


be  one  of  coffee-coloured  laces,  ivy-clad  abbeys,  lichen- 
incriisted  walls — all  that  is  beautiful  and  gracious  in  time- 
honoured  civilisations. 

Nevertheless,  we  lived  on  there  in  a  meaningless  sort  of 
way  —  I  hardly  knew  why.  To  me  it  was  a  puzzle.  When 
I  asked  Hilda,  she  shook  her  head  with  her  sibylline  air  and 
answered,  confidently:  "  You  do  not  understand  Sebastian 
as  well  as  I  do.  We  have  to  wait  for  /ii'm.  The  next  move 
is  his.  Till  he  plays  his  piece,  I  cannot  tell  how  I  may  have 
to  checkmate  him." 

So  we  waited  for  Sebastian  to  advance  a  pawn.  Mean- 
while, I  toyed  with  South  African  farming  —  not  very  suc- 
cessfully, I  must  admit.  Nature  did  not  design  me  for 
growing  oats.  I  am  no  judge  of  oxen,  and  my  views  on  the 
feeding  of  Kaffir  sheep  raised  broad  smiles  on  the  black  faces 
of  my  Mashona  labourers. 

I  still  lodged  at  Tant  Mettie's,  as  everybody  called  Mrs. 
Klaas  ;  she  was  courtesy  aunt  to  the  community  at  large, 
while  Oom  Jan  Willem  was  its  courtesy  uncle.  They  were 
simple,  homely  folk,  who  lived  up  to  their  religions  principles 
on  an  unvaried  diet  of  stewed  ox-beef  and  bread  ;  they 
suffered  much  from  chronic  dyspepsia,  due  in  part,  at  least, 
no  doubt,  to  the  monotony  of  their  food,  their  life,  their 
interests.  One  could  hardly  believe  one  was  still  in  the 
nineteenth  century  ;  these  people  had  the  calm,  the  local 
seclusion  of  the  prehistoric  epoch.  For  them,  Europe  did 
not  exist;  they  knew  it  merely  as  a  place  where  settlers  came 
from.  What  the  Czar  intended,  what  the  Kaiser  designed, 
never  disturbed  their  rest.  A  sick  ox,  a  rattling  tile  on  the 
roof,  meant  more  to  their  lives  than  war  in  Europe.  The 
one  break  in  the  sameness  of  their  daily  routine  was  family 


r  i 


I 


The  Stone  that  L(K^kcd  about  it       211 

prayers;  the  one  weekly  event,  goinj?  to  church  at  vSalishury. 
vStill,  they  had  a  single  enthusiasm.  Like  everybody  else  for 
fifty  miles  around,  they  ))elieved  profoundly  in  the  "  future 
of  Rhodesia."  When  I  gazed  about  me  at  the  raw  new  land 
— the  weary  flat  of  red  soil  and  brown  grassevS— I  felt  at  least 
that,  with  a  present  like  that,  it  had  need  of  a  future. 


y » ^'-  ■■  '■■ 


».'^*.tf,t^ft^.*,y>»,f,.^.- 


./t'" 


\* 


.  % 


"I    (lAZKD   AHOUT    MR   AT   THK    KAW    NKW    LAND. 

I  am  not  by  disposition  a  pioneer  ;  I  belong  instinctively 
to  the  old  civilisations.  In  the  midst  of  rudimentary  towns 
and  incipient  fields,  I  yearn  for  grey  houses,  a  Norman 
church,  an  English  thatched  cottage. 

However,  for  Hilda's  sake,  I  braved  it  out,  and  continued 
to  learn  the  A  B  C  of  agriculture  on  an  unmade  farm  with 
great  assiduity  from  Oom  Jan  Willem. 

We  had  been  stopping  some  months  at  Klaas's  together 
when  business  compelled  me  one  day  to  ride  in  to  Salisbury. 
I  had  ordered  some  goods  for  my  farm  from  Engknd  which 


H'\i 


''  it 


MlcM'tf 


I 


212 


Hilda  Wade 


had  at  last  arrived.  I  had  now  to  arrange  for  their  convey- 
ance from  the  town  to  my  plot  of  land — a  portentous  matter. 
Just  as  I  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  Klaa:  '.•>,  and  was  tight- 
ening the  saddle-girth  on  my  sturdy  little  pony,  Ooni  Jan 
Willem  himself  sidled  up  to  me  with  a  mysterious  air,  his 
broad  face  all  wrinkled  with  anticipatory  pleasure.  He 
placed  a  sixpence  in  my  palm,  glancing  about  him  on  every 
side  as  he  did  so,  like  a  conspirator. 

"  What  am  I  to  buy  with  it  ?  "  I  asked,  much  puzzled, 
and  suspecting  tobacco.  Tant  Mettie  declared  he  smoked 
too  much  for  a  church  elder. 

He  put  his  finger  to  his  lips,  nodded,  and  peered  round. 
"  Lollipops  for  Sannie,"  he  whispered  low,  at  last,  with  a 
guilty  smile.  "  But  " — he  glanced  about  him  again — "  give 
them  to  me,  please,  when  Taut  Mel^ie  is  n't  looking."  His 
nod  was  all  mystery. 

"  You  may  relj'  on  my  discretion,"  I  replied,  throwing  the 
time-honoured  prejudices  of  the  profession  to  the  winds,  and 
well  pleased  to  aid  and  abet  the  simple-minded  soul  in  his 
nefarious  designs  against  little  Sannie's  digestive  apparatus. 
He  patted  me  on  the  back.  "  Peppermint  lollipops,  mind !  " 
he  went  on,  in  the  same  solemn  undertone.  "  Sannie  likes 
them  best — peppermi  nt. ' ' 

I  put  my  foot  in  the  stirrup,  and  vaulted  into  my  saddle. 
"  They  shall  not  be  forgotten,"  I  answert^d,  with  a  quiet 
smile  at  this  pretty  little  evidence  of  father]}-  ^  eling.  I  rode 
off.  It  was  early  morning,  before  the  heat  of  the  day  began. 
Hilda  accompanied  me  part  of  the  way  on  her  bicycle.  She 
was  going  to  the  other  young  farm,  some  eight  miles  off, 
across  the  red-brown  plateau,  where  she  gave  lessons  daily 
to  the  ten-year  old  daughter  of  an  English  settler.     It  was  a 


I 


)  ^ 


The  Stone  that  Looked  about  it       213 

labour  of  love;  for  settlers  in  Rhodesia  cannot  afford  to  i)ay 
for  what  are  l)eaiitifiilly  described  as  "  finishing  govern- 
esses "  ;  Ijut  Hilda  was  of  the  sort  who  cannot  eat  the  bread 
of  idleness.  vShe  had  to  justify  herself  to  her  kind  by  finding 
some  work  to  do  which  should  vindicate  her  existence. 

I  parted  from  her  at  a  point  on  the  monotonous  plain 
where  one  rubbly  road  branched  off  from  another.  Then  I 
jogged  on  in  the  full  morning  sun  over  that  scorching  plain 
of  loose  red  sand  all  the  way  to  vSalisbury.  Not  a  green  leaf 
or  a  fre.sh  flower  anywhere.  The  eye  ached  at  the  hot  glare 
of  the  reflected  sunlight  from  the  sandy  level. 

My  business  detained  me  several  hours  in  the  half-built 
town,  with  its  flaunting  stores  and  its  rough  new  offices  ;  it 
was  not  till  towards  afternoon  that  I  could  get  away  again 
on  my  sorrel,  across  the  blazing  plain  once  more  to  Klaas's. 

I  moved  on  over  the  plateau  at  an  easy  trot,  full  of 
thoughts  of  Hilda.  What  could  be  the  .step  she  expected 
Sebastian  to  take  next  ?  She  did  not  know,  herself,  she  had 
told  me  ;  there,  her  faculty  failed  her.  But  soffic  step  he 
"a'Duld  take  ;  and  till  he  took  it  she  mu.st  rest  and  be  watch- 
Tul. 

I  passed  the  great  tree  that  stands  up  like  an  obelisk  in 
the  midst  of  the  plain  beyond  the  deserted  Matabele  village. 
I  passed  the  low  clumps  of  dry  karroo-bushes  by  the  rocky 
kopje.  I  passed  the  fork  of  the  rubbly  roads  where  I 
had  parted  from  Hilda.  At  last,  I  reached  the  long,  rolling 
lidge  which  looks  down  upon  Klaas's,  and  could  see  in  the 
slant  sunlight  the  mud  farmhouse  and  the  corrugated  iron 
roof  where  the  oxen  were  stabled. 

The  place  looked  more  deserted,  more  dead-alive  than  ever. 
Not  a  black  boy  moved  in  it.     Even  the  cattle  and  Kaffir 


214 


Hilda  Wade 


1  i  ..   ,1  Jt. 


sheep  were  nowhere  to  i)e  seen.  .  .  .  But  then  it  was 
always  quiet;  and  perhaps  I  noticed  the  obtrusive  air  of  soli- 
tude and  sleepiresseven  more  than  usual,  because  I  had  just 
returned  from  vSr  Hsbury.  All  things  are  comparative.  After 
the  lost  loneliness  of  Klaas's  farm,  even  brand-new  Salisbury 
seemed  bu.iy  and  bustling. 

I  hurried  on,  ill  at  ease.  But  Tant  Mettie  would,  doubt- 
less, have  a  cup  of  tea  ready  for  me  as  soon  as  I  arrived,  and 
Hilda  would  be  waiting  at  the  gate  to  welcome  me. 

I  reached  the  stone  enclosure,  and  passed  up  through  the 
flower-garden.  To  my  great  surprise,  Hilda  was  not  there. 
As  a  rule,  she  came  to  meet  me,  with  her  sunny  smile.  But 
perhaps  .she  was  tired,  or  the  sun  on  the  road  might  have 
given  her  a  headache.  I  dismounted  from  my  mare,  and 
called  one  of  the  Kaffir  boys  to  take  her  to  the  stal^le.  No- 
body answered.  ...  I  called  again.  Still  silence. 
.  .  .  I  tied  her  up  to  the  post,  and  strode  over  to  the 
door,  astonished  at  the  solitude.  I  began  to  feel  there  was 
something  weird  and  uncanny  about  this  home-coming. 
Never  before  had  I  known  Klaas's  so  entirely  deserted. 

I  lifted  the  latch  and  opened  the  door.  It  gave  access  at 
once  to  the  single  plain  living-room.  There,  all  was  hud- 
dled. For  a  moment  my  eyes  hardly  took  in  the  truth. 
There  are  sights  so  sickening  that  the  brain  at  the  first 
shock  wholly  fails  to  realise  them. 

On  the  stone  slab  floor  of  the  low  living-room  Tant  Mettie 
laj'-  dead.  Her  body  was  pierced  through  by  innumerable 
thitists,  which  I  somehow  instinctively  recognised  as  assegai 
wounds.  By  her  side  lay  Sannie,  the  little  prattling  girl  of 
three,  my  con.stant  playmate,  whom  I  had  instructed  in  cat's- 
cradle,  and  taught  the  tales  of  Cinderella  and  Red  Riding 


The  Stone  that  Looked  about  it       215 


and 


Hood.  My  hand  grasp^-d  the  lollipops  in  my  pocket  con- 
vulsively. She  would  never  need  them.  Nobody  else  was 
about.  What  had  become  of  Oom  Jan  Willem  —  and  the 
baby  ? 

I  wandered  out  into  the  yard,  sick  with  the  sight  I  had 

already  seen.  There  Oom  Jan 
Willem  himself  lay  stretched  at 
full  length  ;  a 
bullet  had 
pierced  his  left 
temple;  his  body 
was  also  riddled 
through  with  as- 
segai thrusts. 


OOM   JAN   WnXEM   LAY   STRETCHED   AT   FII.I,   LENCITM 


I  saw  at  once  what  this  meant.     A  rising  of  the  Matabele ! 

I  had  come  back  from  Salisbury,  unknowing  it,  into  the 
midst  of  a  revolt  of  bloodthirsty  savages. 

Yet,  even  if  I  had  known,  I  nuist  still  have  hurried  home 
with  all  speed  to  Klaas's  —  to  protect  Hilda. 

Hilda  ?  Where  was  Hilda  ?  A  breathless  sinking  crept 
over  me. 


2l6 


Hilda  Wade 


ill''- 


U\ifi»ii 


1 8 1  'r  I 


I  Staggered  out  into  the  open.  It  was  impossible  to  say 
what  horror  might  not  have  happened.  The  Matabele 
might  even  now  be  lurking  about  the  kraal  —  for  the  bodies 
were  hardly  cold.  But  Hilda  ?  Hilda  ?  Whatever  came,  I 
must  find  Hilda. 

Fortunately,  I  had  my  loaded  revolver  in  my  belt.  Though 
we  had  not  in  the  least  anticipated  this  sudden  revolt  —  it 
broke  like  a  thunder-clap  from  a  clear  sky  —  the  unsettled 
state  of  the  country  made  even  women  go  armed  about  their 
daily  avocations. 

I  strode  on,  half  maddened.  Beside  the  great  block  of 
granite  which  sheltered  the  farm  there  rose  one  of  those 
rocky  little  hillocks  of  loose  boulders  which  are  locally  known 
in  South  Africa  by  the  Dutch  name  of  kopjes.  I  looked  out 
upon  it  drearily.  Its  round  brown  ironstones  lay  piled  ir- 
regularly together,  almost  as  if  placed  there  in  some  earlier 
age  by  the  mighty  hands  of  prehistoric  giants.  My  gaze  on 
it  was  blank.     I  was  thinking,  not  of  it,  but  of  Hilda,  Hilda. 

I  called  the  name  aloud  :  **  Hilda  !  Hilda  !  Hilda  !  " 

As  I  called,  to  my  immense  surprise,  one  of  the  smooth 
round  boulders  on  the  hillside  seemed  slowly  to  uncurl,  and 
to  peer  about  it  cautiously.  Then  it  raised  itself  in  the  slant 
sunlight,  put  a  hand  to  its  eyes,  and  gazed  out  upon  me  with 
a  human  face  for  a  moment.  After  that  it  descended,  step 
by  step,  among  the  other  stones,  with  a  white  object  in  its 
arms.  As  the  boulder  uncurled  and  came  to  life,  I  was 
aware,  by  degrees  .  .  .  yes,  yes,  it  was  Hilda,  with 
Tant  Mettie's  baby  ! 

In  the  fierce  joy  of  that  discovery  I  rushed  forward  to  her, 
trembling,  and  clasped  her  in  my  arms.  I  could  find  no 
words  but**  Hilda!  Hilda!" 


1  i 


ii 


217 


2l8 


Hilda  VV.'ulc 


i  . 


1 1 1  ( II 


I'k 


I 


*'  Arc  they  ^ouo  ?  "  she  asked,  staring  about  her  witli  a 
terrified  air,  thon^Oi  still  strangely  pr 'serving  her  wonted 
composure  of  niamier. 

"  Who  gone  ?     The  Matahele  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes  !  " 

"  Did  you  see  them,  Hilda?" 

"  For  a  moment — ^with  black  shields  and  assegais,  all 
shoulinp  madly.  You  have  been  to  the  house,  Hubert  ? 
You  know  what  has  happened  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  —  a  rising.  They  have  massacred  the 
Klaases." 

She  nodded.  *'  I  came  back  on  my  bicycle,  and,  when  I 
opened  the  door,  found  Taut  Mettie  and  little  Sannie  dead. 
Poor,  sweet  little  vSaiuiie  !  Com  Jan  was  lying  shot  in  the 
yard  outside.  I  saw  the  cradle  overturned,  and  looked  under 
it  for  the  baby.  Tl.'ey  did  not  kill  her  —  perhaps  did  not 
notice  her.  I  caught  her  up  in  my  arms,  and  rushed  out  to 
my  machine,  thinking  to  make  for  Salisbury,  and  give  the 
alarm  to  the  men  there.  One  must  try  to  save  others  —  and 
yon  were  coming,  Hubert  !  Then  I  heard  horses'  hoofs  — 
the  Matabele  returning.  They  dashed  back,  mounted, — 
stolen  horses  from  other  farms, —  they  have  taken  poor  Oom 
Jan's, —  and  they  have  gone  on,  shouting,  to  murder  else- 
where !  I  flung  down  my  machine  among  the  bushes  as 
they  came, —  I  hope  they  have  not  .seen  it, — and  I  crouched 
here  between  the  boulders,  with  the  baby  in  my  arms,  trust- 
ing for  protection  to  the  colour  of  my  dress,  which  is  just 
like  the  ironstone." 

**  It  is  a  perfect  deception,"  I  answered,  admiring  her  in- 
stinctive cleverness  even  then.     "  I  never  so  much  as  noticed 


you 


>  > 


The  Stone  that  Looked  about  it       sfQ 


"  Xo,  nor  the  NTatahele  eitluT.  for  all  tluir  sharp  eyes. 
They  passed  !)y  williout  sloppitii;.  I  clasi)eil  the  l)ahy  hard, 
and  tried  to  keep  it  from  crying  —  if  it  had  cried,  all  would 
have  been  lost  ;  but  the>  ]»assL'd  just  l)elo\v,  and  swept  on 
toward  Rozenbooni's.     I  lay  still  for  a  while,  not  daring  to 


'l^/*M><tftV  « 


"THEY    I'ASSKIJ   JUST    UKl.UVV.' 

look  out.  Then  I  raised  myself  warily,  and  tried  to  listen. 
Just  at  that  moment,  I  heard  a  horse's  hoofs  ring  out  once 
more.  I  could  n't  tell,  of  course,  whether  it  wan  von  return- 
ing, or  one  of  the  Matabele,  left  behind  by  the  others.  vSo  I 
crouched  again.  .  .  .  Thank  God,  you  are  safe,  Hubert!  " 
All  this  took  a  moment  to  say,  or  was  less  said  than  hinted. 
"  Now,  what  must  we  do  ?  "  I  cried.  "  Bolt  back  again  to 
Salisbury?" 


2  JO 


llilcla  Wiule 


<i 


I' t' 


:H!     ; 


It  is  the  only  thiiij;  possible  —  If  my  machine  is  unhurt. 
They  may  have  taken  it  ...  or  ridden  over  and  broken 
it." 

.  We  went  down  to  the  spot,  and  picked  it  up  where  it  lay. 
half-concealed  among  the  briiMe,  dry  scrub  of  njilk-!)ushe8. 
I  examined  the  bearings  carefuUy  ;  though  there  were  hoof- 
marks  close  by,  it  had  received  no  hurt.  I  blew  up  the  tire, 
which  was  somewhat  na))by,  and  went  on  to  untie  my  .sturdy 
pony.  The  moment  I  looked  at  her  I  saw  the  poor  little 
brute  was  wearied  out  with  her  two  long  rides  in  the  .swelter- 
ing sun.  Her  flanks  (juivered.  **  It  is  no  use,"  I  cried, 
palling  her,  as  .she  turned  to  me  with  appealing  eyes  that 
asked  for  water.  *' vShe  m;/7  go  back  as  far  as  Salisbury ; 
at  least,  till  she  has  had  a  i'ci:0  of  corn  and  a  drink.  Ivven 
then,  it  will  be  rough  on  her." 

"  Give  her  bread,"  Hilda  suggested.  "  That  will  hearten 
her  more  than  corn.  There  is  plenty  in  the  house  ;  Tant 
Mettie  baked  this  morning." 

I  crept  in  reluctantly  to  fetch  it.  I  also  brought  out  from 
the  dresser  a  few  raw  eggs,  to  break  into  a  tumbler  and 
swallow  whole;  for  Hilda  and  I  needed  food  almost  as  sorely 
as  the  poor  beast  herself.  There  was  something  gruesome 
in  thus  rummaging  about, for  bread  and  meat  in  the  dead 
woman's  cupboard,  while  she  herself  lay  there  on  the  floor  ; 
but  one  never  realises  how  one  will  act  in  these  great 
emergencies  until  they  come  upon  one.  Hilda,  still  calm 
with  unearthly  calmness,  took  a  couple  of  loaves  from  my 
hand,  and  began  feeding  the  pony  with  them.  "  Go  and 
draw  water  for  her,"  she  said,  simply,  "  while  I  give  her 
the  bread;  that  will  save  time.     Every  minute  is  precious." 

I  did  as  I  was  bid,  not  knowing  each  moment  but  that  the 


The  Stone  that  Looked  about  it       221 


itisiirp:ents  would  return.  Wlicii  T  ramc  1):u'k  frotn  the 
HpritiK  ^vith  the  l>ticket,  the  mare  hul  demolished  tlje  whole 
two  loaves,  and  was  Koii»K  •>'»  ni'on  some  grass  whicli  Hilda 
had  phicked  lor  her. 

"  Slie  has  n't  had  enouK  .,  poor  dear,"  llihhi  said,  patting; 
her  neck.  "  A  couple  of  loaves  a;e  peiuiy  huns  to  her  apjJC* 
tite.  Let  her  drink  the  water,  while  I  ^o  in  and  fetch  out 
the  rest  of  the  hakiuK." 

I  hesitated.  "  Von  tan'f  go  in  there  ap^ain,  Hilda  !"  I 
cried.     "  Wait,  and  let  me  do  it." 

Her  white  face  was  resolute.  "  Yes,  I  lan,"  she  an- 
swered. **  It  is  a  work  of  nece.ssity ;  and  in  wor''s  of  neces- 
sity a  woman,  I  think,  should  flinch  at  nothiiij;.  Have  I  not 
seen  already  every  varied  aspect  of  death  at  Nathaniel's  ?  " 
Antl  in  she  went,  undaunted,  to  that  chamber  of  horrors, 
.still  claspinji:  the  baby. 

The  pony  made  .short  work  of  the  remaining  loaves,  which 
she  devoured  with  great  /est.  As  Hilda  had  predicted,  they 
vSeemed  to  hearten  her.  The  food  and  drink,  with  a  ))Ucket 
of  water  dashed  on  her  hoofs,  gave  her  new  vigour  like  wine. 
We  gulped  down  our  eggs  in  silence.  Then  I  lu-^d  Hilda's 
bicyle.  She  vaulted  lightly  on  to  the  .seat,  white  and  tired 
as  she  was,  with  the  baby  in  her  left  arm,  and  her  right  hand 
on  the  handle-bar. 

"  I  must  take  the  baby,"  I  said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Oh,  no.     I  will  not  trust  her  to  you." 

••  Hilda,  I  insist." 

"  And  I  insist,  too.     It  is  my  place  to  take  her." 

"  But  can  you  ride  so  ?  "  I  asked,  anxiously. 

She  began  to  pedal.     "  Oh,  dear,  yes.     It  is  quite,  quite 


22} 


Hilda  Wade 


cany.     I  shall  k^'I  llierc  all  ri^jhl     if  i\v       »tal»clc  don't  Inirsl 
ii|K)H  u«." 

Tirerl  as  I  was  with  my  lonj^  day's  work,  I  jmniH'd  jjito 
tny  saddle.  I  saw  I  shotdd  only  lose  time  if  I  disputed 
about  the  buby.     My  little  horse  seemed  to  nnderstaml  that 


mi.DA    rr.DAI.I.K!)    UKAVKI.Y    IIY    MY    SIDK. 


something  prave  had  occurred;  for,  weary  as  she  must  have 
been,  she  set  out  with  a  will  once  more  over  that  great  red 
level.  Hilda  pedalled  bravely  by  my  side.  The  road  was 
bumpy,  but  she  was  well  accustomed  to  it.  I  could  have 
ridden  faster  than  she  went,  for  the  baby  weighted  her. 
Still,  we  rode  for  dear  life.     It  was  a  grim  experience. 


The  SlDiic  that  Lookcil  about  it       323 

All  roitiul.  i>>  thi.H  time,  the  hori/.on  wnM  diiu  with  clomU 
of  hlnck  Hiiiokc  which  went  up  from  hunting;  fanuH  and  phiii 
(Icred  hni!ic'Mtead.H.  Tlie  smoke  did  not  rirte  hiy;li  ;  it  hunK 
millculy  over  tlic  hot  plain  in  lon^'  sl^()llKU•rin^'  ujaHHi-s,  like 
the  sJMokc  of  MteamcrH  on  fo^KV  ihi>  h  in  ICnKland.  The  Mini 
was  ncarinK  tiif  hori/on  ;  his  slant  red  rays  IJKhlcd  up  the 
red  plain,  the  red  sand,  the  Itrownred  K'rasses.  with  a  murky, 
sj)eclral  >;low  of  crimson.  AtUr  those  red  pnols  of  lil()(»d, 
this  universal  hurst  of  redness  appalled  one.  It  seemed  as 
though  all  nature  had  conspired  in  one  unholy  lea};ue  with 
the  Matahele.  We  rodi-  on  without  a  word.  The  red  sky 
j;rew  redder. 

"  They  nmy  have  sacked  S  disl)ury!  "  !  exclaimed  at  last, 
looking  out  towards  the  hnmd-new  town. 

"  I  doubt  it,"  Hilda  answeretl.  Her  very  doul)t  reassured 
me. 

We  began  to  moinit  a  lonj;  slope.  Hilda  peilalled  with 
difficulty.  Not  a  sound  was  heard  save  the  lij^ht  fall  of  my 
pony's  feet  on  the  soft  new  road,  and  the  shrill  cry  of  the 
cicalas.  Then,  suddeidy,  we  started.  What  was  that  noise 
in  our  rear?  Once,  twice,  it  rany;  out.  The  land  p///i^  of  a 
rille  ! 

Looking  behind  us,  we  saw  eight  or  ten  mounted  Mata- 
bele  !  Stalwart  warriors  they  were — half  nak  •',  and  riding 
stolen  horses.  They  were  coming  our  way!  They  had  seen 
us  !    They  were  pursuing  us  ! 

"  Put  on  all  .speed!  "  I  cried,  in  tuy  agony.  "  Hilda,  can 
you  manage  it?"  vShe  pedalled  with  a  will.  Hut,  as  we 
mounted  the  slope,  I  saw  they  were  gaining  upon  us.  A 
few  hundred  yards  were  all  our  start.  They  had  the  descent 
of  the  opposite  hill  as  yet  in  their  favour. 


^v. 


Im 


224 


Hilda  Wade 


h>. 


rill  11 


'i  M 


Ph 


One  man,  astride  on  a  better  horse  than  the  rest,  galloped 
on  in  front  and  came  within  range  of  us.  He  had  a  rifle  in 
his  hand.  He  pointed  it  twice,  and  covered  us.  But  he  did 
not  shoot.  Hilda  gave  a  cry  of  relief.  "  Don't  you  see  ?  " 
she  exclaimed.  "  It  is  Oom  Jan  Willem's  rifle  !  That  was 
their  last  cartridge.     They  have  no  more  ammunition." 

I  saw  she  was  probably  right  ;  for  Klaas  was  out  of  cart- 
ridges, and  was  waiting  for  my  new  stock  to  arrive  from 
England.  If  that  were  correct,  they  must  get  near  enougii 
to  attack  us  with  assegais.  They  are  more  dangerous  so. 
I  rememl)ered  what  an  old  Boer  had  said  to  me  at  Buluvvayo: 
"  The  Zulu  with  his  assegai  is  an  enemy  to  be  feared;  with 
a  gun,  he  is  a  bungler." 

"We  pounded  on  up  the  hill.  It  was  deadly  work,  with 
those  brutes  at  our  heels.  The  child  on  Hilda's  arm  was 
visibly  wearying  her.  It  kept  on  whining.  "  Hilda,"  I 
cried,  "  that  baby  will  lose  your  life  !  You  cannot  go  on 
carrying  it." 

She  turned  to  me  with  a  flash  of  her  eyes.  **  What  !  You 
are  a  man,"  she  broke  out,  "  and  you  ask  a  woman  to  save 
her  life  by  abandoning  a  baby  !     Hubert,  you  shame  me  !  " 

I  felt  she  was  right.  If  she  had  been  capable  of  giving  it 
up,  she  would  not  have  been  Hilda.  There  was  but  one 
other  way  left. 

"  Then  j'^M  must  take  the  pony,"  I  called  out,  "  and  let 
me  have  the  bicycle  !  * ' 

"  You  could  n't  ride  it,"  she  called  back.  '*  It  is  a  wo- 
man's machine,  remember." 

**  Yes,  I  could,"  I  replied,  without  slowing.  "It  is  not 
much  too  short ;  and  I  can  bend  my  knees  a  bit.  Quick, 
quick  !     No  words  !     Do  as  I  tell  you  !  " 


The  Stone  tliat  Looked  about  it       225 


i 


She  liesitated  a  second.  The  child's  weight  distressed  her. 
*'  We  should  lose  time  in  changinj;,"  slu;  answered,  at  last, 
doubtful  but  still  pedalling,  though  my  hand  was  on  the  rein, 
ready  to  pull  up  the  pony. 

"  Not  if  we  manage  it  right.  Obey  orders!  The  moment 
I  say  '  Halt,'  I  shall  slacken  my  mare's  pace.  When  you 
see  me  leave  the  .saddle,  jump  off  instantly,  you,  and  mount 
her  !  T  will  catch  the  machine  before  it  falls.  Are  you 
ready  ?     Halt,  then  !  " 

She  obeyed  the  word  without  one  .second's  delay.  I 
.slipped  off,  held  the  bridlu,  caught  the  bicycle,  and  led  it  in- 
stantaneou.sly.  Then  I  ran  buside  the  pony  —  l)ridle  in  one 
hand,  machine  in  the  other  —  till  Hilda  had  sprung  with  a 
light  bound  into  the  stirrup.  At  th.it,  a  little  leap,  and  I 
mounted  the  bicycle.  It  was  all  done  nimbly,  in  less  time 
than  the  telling  takes,  for  we  are  both  of  us  naturally  quick 
in  our  movemerits.  Hilda  rode  like  a  man,  astride  —  her 
short,  bicycling  .skirt,  unobtrusively  divided  in  front  and  at 
the  back,  made  this  easily  possible.  Looking  behind  me 
with  a  hasty  ghince,  I  could  see  that  the  savages,  taken 
aback,  had  reined  in  to  deliberate  at  our  unwonted  evolu- 
tion. I  feel  .sure  that  the  nov-elty  of  the  iron  hor.se,  with  a 
w  nan  riding  it,  played  not  a  little  on  their  .superstitious 
fears  ;  they  suspected,  no  doubt,  this  was  sonv  ingenious 
new  engine  of  war  devised  against  them  by  the  unaccount- 
able white  man;  it  might  go  off  unexpectedly  in  their  faces 
at  any  moment.  Most  of  them,  I  observed,  as  they  halted, 
carried  on  their  backs  black  ox-hide  shields,  interlaced  with 
wbitf'  thongs  ;  they  were  armed  with  two  or  three  assegais 
apiece  and  a  knobkerry. 

Instead  of  losing  time  by  the  change,  as  it  turned  out,  we 
'5 


226 


Hilda  Wade 


*  ■.  1 


if 


had  actually  gained  it.  Hilda  was  able  to  put  on  my  sorrel 
to  her  full  pace,  which  I  had  not  dared  to  do,  for  fear  of  out- 
running my  companion  ;  the  wise  little  beast,  for  her  part, 
seemed  to  rise  to  the  occasion,  and  to  understand  that  wc 
were  pursued;  for  she  stepped  out  bravely.  On  the  other 
hand,  in  spite  of  the  low  seat  and  the  short  crank  of  a 
woman's  machine,  I  could  pedal  up  the  slope  with  more 
force  than  Hilda,  for  I  am  a  practised  hill-climber  ;  so  that 
in  both  ways  we  gained,  besides  having  momentarily  discon- 
certed and  checked  the  enemy.  Their  ponies  were  tired, 
and  they  rode  them  full  tilt  with  savage  recklessness,  mak- 
ing them  canter  up-hill,  and  so  needlessly  fatiguing  them. 
The  Matabele,  indeed,  are  unused  to  horses,  and  manage 
them  but  ill.  It  is  as  foot  soldiers,  creeping  stealthily  through 
bush  or  long  grass,  that  they  are  really  formidable.  Only 
one  of  their  mounts  was  tolerably  fresh,  the  one  which  had 
once  already  almost  overtaken  us.  As  we  neared  the  top  of 
the  slope,  Hilda,  glancing  behind  her,  exclaimed,  with  a 
sudden  thrill,  **  He  is  spurting  again,  Hubert!  " 

I  drew  my  revolver  and  held  it  in  my  right  hand,  using 
my  left  for  steering.  I  did  not  look  back;  time  was  far  too 
precious.  I  set  my  teeth  hard.  "  Tell  me  when  he  draws 
near  enough  for  a  shot,"  I  said,  quietly. 

Hilda  only  nodded.  Being  mounted  on  the  mare,  she 
could  see  behind  her  more  steadily  now  than  I  could  from 
the  machine  ;  and  her  eye  was  trustworthy.  As  for  the 
baby,  rocked  by  the  heave  and  fall  of  the  pony's  withers,  it 
had  fallen  asleep  placidly  in  the  very  midst  of  this  terror! 

After  a  second,  I   asked  once  more,  with  bated  breath, 

Is  he  gaining  ?  " 

She  looked  back.     "  Yes  ;  gaining." 


(f 


o 

U} 

X 


Hi 

-) 

s 


U 

'/) 

'J 

>^ 

H 


228 


Hilda  Wade 


•  I' 


K- 


i-, 

*         i 

3'' 

■  **    ■     , 

If  i 

H ' . 

|1 

f .: 

la 

K      ^ 

11 

A  pause.     "  And  now  ?  " 

'*  vStill  ji^aining.     lie  is  poisin^'x  an  assegai." 

Ten  seconds  more  passed  in  breathless  suspense.  The 
thud  of  their  horses'  hoofs  alone  told  me  their  nearness.  My 
finger  was  on  the  trigger.  I  awaited  the  word.  "  I'Mre!  " 
she  said  at  last,  in  a  calm,  unflinching  voice.  "  He  is  well 
within  distance." 

I  turned  half  round  and  levelled  as  true  as  I  could  at  the 
advancing  black  man.  He  rode,  nearly  naked,  showinc:  all 
his  teeth  and  brandishing  his  assegai  ;  the  long  white 
feathers  .stuck  upright  in  his  hair  gave  him  a  wild  and  terri- 
fying barbaric  aspect.  It  was  difficult  to  preserve  one's 
balance,  keep  the  way  on,  and  shoot,  all  at  the  same  time  ; 
but,  spurred  by  necessity,  I  somehow  did  it.  I  fired  three 
shots  in  quick  succession.  My  first  bullet  missed  ;  my  sec- 
ond knocked  the  man  over  ;  my  third  grazed  the  horse. 
With  a  ringing  shriek,  the  Matabele  fell  in  the  road,  a  black 
writhing  mass  ;  his  horse,  terrified,  dashed  back  with  mad- 
dened snorts  into  the  midst  of  the  others.  Its  plunging  dis- 
concerted the  whole  party  for  a  minute. 

We  did  not  wait  to  see  the  rest.  Taking  advantage  of 
this  momentary  diversion  in  our  favour,  we  rode  on  at  full 
speed  to  the  top  of  the  slope — I  never  knew  before  how  hard 
I  could  pedal  —  and  began  to  descend  at  a  dash  into  the 
opposite  hollow. 

The  sun  had  set  by  this  time.  There  is  no  twilight  in 
those  latitudes.  It  grew  dark  at  once.  We  could  see  now, 
in  the  plain  all  round,  where  black  clouds  of  smoke  had 
rolled  before,  one  lurid  red  glare  of  burning  houses,  mixed 
with  a  sullen  haze  of  tawny  light  from  the  columns  of  prairie 
fire  kindled  by  the  insurgents. 


The  Stone  that  Looked  about  it 


229 


The 

My 


;  in 


We  made  our  way  still  onward  across  tlic  oi)L'n  plain  with- 
out one  word  towards  Salisbury.  The  mare  was  ^ivin^  out. 
vShe  strode  with  a  will  ;  but  her  flanks  were  white  with 
froth  ;  her  breath  came  short  :  foam  flew  from  her  nostrils. 

As  we  mounted  the  next  rid^e,  still  distancinj;  our  pur- 
suers, I  saw  suddenly,  on  its  crest,  defined  against  the  livid 
red  sky  like  a  silhouette,  two  more  mounted  black  men! 

"  It 's  all  up,  Hilda  !  "  I  cried,  losing  heart  at  last.  "  They 
are  on  both  sides  of  us  now  !  The  mare  is  spent  ;  we  are 
surrounded !  " 

She  drew  rein  and  t;azed  at  them.  I'or  a  moment  sus- 
pense .spoke  in  all  her  attitude.  Then  .she  burst  into  a  sud- 
den deep  sigh  of  relief.  "  No,  no,"  she  cried  ;  "  these  are 
friendlies!  " 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  I  gasped.     Hut  I  believed  her. 

"  They  are  looking  out  this  way,  with  hands  .shading  their 
eyes  against  the  red  glare.  The  are  looking  away  from 
Sali.sbury,  in  the  direction  of  the  attack.  The3'  are  expect- 
ing the  enemy.  They  must  be  friendlies  !  See,  see  !  they 
have  caught  sight  of  us!  " 

As  she  spoke,  one  of  the  men  lifted  his  rifle  and  half 
pointed  it.  "  Don't  shoot  !  don't  shoot  !  "  I  shrieked  aloud. 
"We  are  English!  English!" 

The  men  let  their  rifles  drop,  and  rode  down  towards  us. 
"  Who  are  you?"  I  cried. 

They  saluted  us,  military  fashion.  "  Matabele  police, 
sah,"  the  leader  answered,  recognising  me.  "  You  are  fly- 
ing from  Klaas's?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered.  "  They  have  murdered  Klaas,  with 
his  wife  and  child.     Some  of  them  are  nq,vv  following  us." 

The  spokesman  was  a  well-educated  Cape  Town  negro. 


'T  M! 


230 


Hilda  Wade 


Hi 


tii  *, 


"  All  right  sah,"  he  aiisucred.  "  I  have  forty  men  here 
rigiit  bchiiul  de  kopje.  I^et  dcin  come  !  We  can  ^ive  a 
good  account  of  deni.  Ride  on  straight  wit  de  lady  to 
vSalisbiiry!  " 

"  The  Salisbury  people  know  of  this  rising,  then  ?"  I  asked. 

'*  Yes,  sail.  Deni  kno'v  .since  five  o'clock.  KafTir  boys 
from  Klaas's  brought  in  cie  news  ;  and  a  white  man  escaped 
from  Rozenboom's  confirm  it.  We  have  pickets  all  round. 
You  is  safe  now  ;  you  can  ride  on  into  Salisbury  witout  fear 
of  de  Matabele." 

I  rode  on,  relieved.  Mechanically,  my  feet  worked  to  and 
fro  on  the  pedals.  It  "'as  a  gentle  down-gradient  now 
towards  the  town.  I  had  no  further  need  for  .special 
exertion. 

Suddenly,  Hilda's  voice  came  wafted  to  me,  as  through  a 
mist.  "  What  are  you  doing,  Hubert  ?  You  '11  be  off  in  a 
minute  !  " 

I  started  and  recovered  my  balance  with  difficulty.  Then 
I  was  aware  at  once  that  one  second  before  I  had  all  but 
dropped  asleep,  dog  tired,  on  the  bicycle.  Worn  out  with  my 
long  day  and  with  the  nervous  strain,  I  began  to  doze  off, 
with  my  feet  still  moving  round  and  round  automatically, 
the  moment  the  anxiety  of  the  chase  was  relieved,  and  an 
easy  down-grade  gave  me  a  little  respite. 

I  kept  myself  awake  even  then  with  difficulty.  Riding  on 
through  the  lurid  gloom,  we  reached  Salisbury  at  last,  and 
found  the  town  already  crowded  with  refugees  from  the 
plateau.  However,  we  succeeded  in  securing  two  rooms  at 
a  house  in  the  long  street,  and  were  soon  sitting  down  to  a 
much-needed  supper. 

As  we  rested,  an  hour  or  two  later,  in  the  ill-furnished 


The  Stone  that  Lookctl  about  it 


2\\ 


back  room,  discussiti^  this  sudden  turn  of  alTairs  with  our 
host  and  sonic  nci^lihonrs  for,  of  course,  all  vSalishury  was 
eager  for  news  from  Ihe  scene  of  the  massacres —  I  happened 
to  laise  my  head,  and  saw,  to  my  ^reat  surprise  ...  a 
hap^ard  white  face  peering  in  at  us  through  the  window. 

It  peered  round  a  corner,  stealthily.  It  was  an  ascetic 
face,  very  sharp  and  clear-cut.  It  had  a  stately  pro- 
fde.  The  long  and  wiry  gri/./led  moustache,  the  deep-.set, 
hawk-like  eyes,  the  acute,  intense,  intellectual  features,  all 
were  very  familiar.  So  was  the  outer  setting  of  long,  white 
hair,  straight  and  silvery  as  it  fell,  and  just  curled  in  one 
wave-like  inward  sweej)  where  it  turned  and  rested  on  the 
stooping  shoulders.  Hut  the  expression  on  the  face  was 
even  stranger  than  the  sudden  apparition.  It  was  an  ex- 
pression of  keen  and  poignant  disappointment  —  as  of  a  man 
whom  fate  has  bavdked  of  some  w  .-ll-planned  end,  liis  due  by 
right,  which  mere  cliance  has  evaded. 

"  They  .say  there  's  a  white  man  at  the  bottom  of  all  this 
trouble,"  our  host  had  br  mi  remarking,  one  second  earlier. 
"  The  niggers  know  too  much  ;  and  where  did  they  get 
their  rifles  ?  People  at  Rozenboom's  believe  some  l)lack- 
livered  traitor  has  been  .stirring  up  the  Matabele  for  weeks 
and  weeks.  An  enemy  of  Rhodes's,  of  course,  jealous  of 
our  advance  ;  a  French  agent,  perhaps  ;  but  more  likely  one 
of  these  confounded  Transvaal  Dutchmen.  Depend  upon  it, 
it  's  Kruger's  doing." 

As  the  words  fell  from  hir.  lips,  I  saw  the  face.  I  gave  a 
quick  little  start,  then  recovered  my  composure. 

But  Hilda  noted  it.  She  looked  up  at  me  hastily.  She 
was  sitting  with  her  back  to  the  window,  and  therefore,  of 
course,   could  not  see  the  face   itself,   which  indeed  was 


232 


Hilda  Wade 


I! 


(iri  irV  I, 


N 


withdrawn  with  a  hurried  movenient,  yet  with  a  certain 
strange  dij^iiity,  ahnost  l)efore  I  could  feci  sure  of  haviuj; 
seen  it.  vSlill,  she  caught  my  startled  expression,  and  the 
gleam  of  surprise  anc'  recopjnition  in  my  eye.  .She  laid  one 
hand  upon  my  arm.  "  You  have  seen  him?"  she  askeil 
quietly,  almost  below  her  breath. 

"  Seen  whom  ?  " 

"vSebastian." 

It  was  useless  denying  it  to  /irr.  "  Yes,  I  have  seen  him," 
1  answered,  in  a  confidential  aside. 

"Just  now  —  this  moment  —  at  the  back  ot  the  lioust  — 
looking  in  at  the  window  upon  us  ?  " 

"  You  are  right  —  as  always." 

She  drew  a  deep  breath.  "  He  has  played  his  game,"  .she 
said  low  to  me,  in  an  awed  undertone.  *'  I  felt  sure  it  was 
he.  I  expected  him  to  play  ;  though  what  piece,  I  knew 
not ;  and  when  I  .saw  those  poor  dead  souls,  I  was  certain 
he  had  done  it  —  indirectly  done  it.  The  Matabele  are  his 
pawns.  He  wanted  to  aim  a  blow  at  ffic  ■  and  //i/s  was  the 
way  he  chose  to  aim  it." 

"  Do  you  think  he  is  capable  of  that  ?  "  I  cried.  For,  in 
spite  of  all,  I  had  still  a  sort  of  lingering  respect  for  .Sebas- 
tian. "  It  seems  so  reckless  —  like  the  worst  of  anarchi.sts 
— when  he  strikes  at  one  head,  to  involve  so  many  irrelevant 
lives  in  one  common  destruction." 

Hilda's  face  was  like  a  drowned  man's. 

"  To  Sebastian,"  she  answered,  shuddering,  "  the  End  is 
all ;  the  Means  are  unessential.  Who  wills  the  End,  wills 
the  Means;  that  is  the  sum  and  substance  of  his  philosophy 
of  life.  From  first  to  last,  he  has  always  acted  up  to  it. 
Did  I  not  tell  you  once  he  was  a  snow-clad  volcano  ?  " 


1 


r 


i 


i.^' 


1 1 


iv. 

«|N||m  I| 
r 

•   ■     r   ■ 


i.: 


if  ■  j 


234 


Hilda  Wacic 


vSiill,  I  am  loth  to  hclicvc- 


I  cried. 


She  intcrrtiptcd  me  calmly.  "  I  knew  it,"  .she  said.  "  I 
expected  it.  Henealh  thai  cold  exterior,  the  fires  of  his  life 
burn  fiercely  .still.  I  told  you  ne  must  wail  for  vSehastian's 
next  move  ;  though  I  confess,  even  from  //////,  I  hardly 
dreamt  of  this  one.  Hut,  from  the  moment  when  I  opcnel 
the  door  on  poor  Tant  Mettie's  body,  \y'\u^  there  in  its  red 
horror,  I  felt  it  nuist  be  he.  And  when  you  .starteil  just 
now,  I  snid  to  my.self  in  a  Hash  of  intuition — '  Sebastian  has 
come  !  He  has  come  to  .see  how  his  devil's  work  has  pros- 
pered.' He  sees  it  has  j;one  wrong.  So  now  he  will  try  to 
devise  some  other." 

I  thought  of  thii  mali]L;:n  expression  on  that  cruel  white  face 
as  it  .stared  in  at  the  window  from  the  outer  gloom,  and  I 
felt  convinced  .she  vv.is  right.  She  had  read  her  man  once 
more.  For  it  was  the  desperate,  contorted  face  of  one  ap- 
palled to  discover  that  a  great  crime  attempted  and  .success- 
fully carried  out  has  failed,  by  mere  accident,  of  its  central 
intention. 


.V 


CIIAl'TI'R   VIII 

TIIK  I'l'ISODK  Ol'  TIIK  HlKOl'KAN  WITH  Till-:  KATI'IK  IIKAKT 

UXI'ASIIIOXAIUJ':  as  it  is  to  say  so,  I  am  a  man  of 
j)f:ice.  I  I)l1oii^  to  a  profession  whose  province  is  to 
heal,  not  to  destroy.  Still  there  arc  limes  which  turn 
cwn  the  most  ])eaceful  of  us  perforce  into  rii;hters  —  times 
when  those  we  love,  those  we  are  bound  to  protect,  stand  in 
danger  of  their  lives  ;  and  at  moments  like  that,  no  man  can 
doubt  what  is  his  plain  duty.  The  Matabele  revolt  was  one 
such  moment.  In  a  conflict  of  race  we  nntsi  back  our  own 
colour.  1  do  not  know  whether  the  natives  were  justified  in 
rising:  or  not  ;  most  likely,  yes  ;  for  we  had  stolen  their 
country  ;  but  when  once  they  rose,  when  the  security  of 
white  women  depended  upon  repelling  them,  I  felt  I  had  no 
alternative.  For  Hilda's  sake,  for  the  sake  of  every  woman 
and  child  in  Salisbury',  and  in  all  Rhodesia,  I  was  bound  to 
bear  my  part  in  restoring  order. 

For  the  immediate  future,  it  is  true,  we  were  safe  enough 
in  the  little  town  ;  but  we  did  not  know  how  far  the  revolt 
might  have  spread  ;  we  could  not  tell  what  had  happened  at 
Charter,  at  IJuluwayo,  at  the  outlying  stations.  The  Mata- 
bele, perhaps,  had  risen  in  force  over  the  whole  vast  area 

235 


n 


lilii^ltj 


ii^m  If 


*» 


236 


Hilda  Wade 


which  wnH  otiro  I.o  lU'ii^iiln'M  oouutry  ;  If  nn,  their  firnt 
<»l>)cil  Wdtild  certainly  he  to  cut  tin  ofT  iVotn  coimnuiiicalioii 
with  the  main  horly  of  ICn^lish  settlers  at  Huhuvayo. 

"  I  trust  to  you,  Hilda,"  I  said,  on  the  dav  after  the  nias- 
incre  at  Klaas's,  "  to  divine  for  us  wher.-  these  savages  arc 
next  likely  to  allnck  us." 

She  cooetl  at  the  motherless  h.ihy,  raisin^j  one  hent  finger, 
.md  then  turned  to  me  with  a  while  smile.  *'  There  you  ask 
too  much  of  me,"  she  answered.     "Just  think  what  a  cor- 


dd 


)ly 


I'ir.st, 


m 


or  would  impiy  :  rir.si,  a  knowledge  of  these  sav 
ages'  character  ;  next,  a  knowledge  of  their  mode  of  fighting. 
Can't  you  see  that  only  a  person  who  possessed  my  trick  of 
intuition,  and  who  had  also  spent  years  in  warfare  among 
the  Matahele.  would  he  really  aide  to  answer  your(|Uestion  ?  " 

"  And  yet  such  <|uestions  have  heeii  answered  before  now 
by  people  far  less  intuitive  than  >ou,"  I  went  on.  "  Why, 
I  've  read  somewhere  how,  when  the  war  between  Napoleon 
the  I'Mrst  and  the  Prussians  broke  out,  in  1X06,  Jomini  pre- 
dicted thai  the  decisive  battle  of  the  cam])aign  would  be 
fonght  near  Jena  ;  and  near  Jena  it  was  fi)Ught.  Are  not 
]■(>/(  better  than  many  Jominis  ?  " 

lliki.i  tickled  the  baby's  cheek.  "  vSmile,  then,  baby, 
smile  !  "  .she  said,  pouncing  one  .soft  finger  on  a  gathering 
dimple.     "  And  who  ttuis  your  friend  Jomini  ?  " 

"  The  greatest  military  critic  and  tactician  of  his  age,"  I 
answered.  "  One  of  Napoleon's  generals.  I  fancy  he  wrote 
a  book,  don't  you  know — a  book  on  war — Des  (itandes 
Opi'raiious  A/ilitaircs,  or  something  of  that  sort." 

"  Well,  there  you  are,  then  !  That  's  ju.st  it  !  Your 
Jomini,  or  Hominy,  or  whatever  you  call  him,  not  only 
understood  Napoleon's  temperament,   but  understood  war 


The  r.iirn|Kan  with  tin-  K.itlir  Ilciirt 


ami  nmlcrstiMwl  tacti'S.     It  was  all  n  «|tustion  of  tlu-  lie  of 

till*  liml,  and  HtralcKV,  n\u\  so  forth.      II   /  ha<l  licirii  ankcd, 

I  could  JK'Vcr  have  answered  a  (|iiartcr  as  well  as  jnniiiii 

Piccolomiiii     could  I.haliy.'    Joiiiini  wmild  have  Imcii  worlli 

a  K<'«'<l  iijaiiy  iiic's. 

There,    there,   a 

dear,    iiiotherless 

darling'    Why,  she 

crows  just  as  if  she 

had  n't  h)st  all  her 

family!" 

"  Hill.  Hilda,  wc 
must  be  serious.  I 
count  upon  you  to 
help  us  in  this  mat- 
ter. We  arc  still  in 
danger.  ICvcnnow 
these  M  a  t  a  I)  e  1  c 
may  attack  and  de- 
stroy us." 

She  laid  the  child 
on    her    lap,    and 

looked  grave.  "  I  know  it,  Hubert  ;  but  I  nuist  leave  it 
now  to  you  men.  I  am  no  tactician.  Don't  take  w/  for 
one  of  Napoleon's  generals." 

"  Still,"  I  .said,  "  we  have  not  only  the  .Matabele  to  reckon 
with,  recollect.  There  is  vSebastian  as  well.  And,  whether 
you  know  your  Matabele  or  not,  you  at  least  know  your 
Sebastian." 

She  shuddered.  "  I  know  him  ;  yes,  I  know  him.  .  .  . 
But  this  case  is  so  difficult.    We  have  Sebastian— complicated 


*'(  <»l  1  l>    I,    HAIlY?" 


238 


Hilda  Wade 


\ii 


0*»  ft 


■^M} 


by  a  rabble  of  savages,  whose  habits  and  manners  I  do 
not  understand.     It  is  //in/  that  makes  the  difficulty." 

"  Hut  Sebastian  himself?  "  I  urged.  "  Take  him  first,  in 
isolation." 

She  paused  for  a  full  minute,  with  her  chin  on  her  hand 
and  her  elbow  on  the  table.  Her  brow  gathered.  "  Sebas- 
tian ?  "  she  repeated.  "  Sebastian  ?-— ah,  there  I  might 
guess  something.  Well,  of  course,  having  once  begun  this 
attempt,  and  being  definitely  committed,  as  it  were,  to  a 
policy  of  killing  us,  he  will  go  through  to  the  bitter  end,  no 
matter  how  many  other  lives  it  may  cost.  That  is  vSebas- 
tian's  method." 

**  You  don't  think,  having  once  found  out  that  I  saw  and 
recognised  him,  he  would  consider  the  game  lost,  and  slink 
away  to  the  coast  again  ?  " 

"  Sebastian  ?  Oh,  no  ;  that  is  the  absolute  antipodes  of 
his  type  and  temperament." 

"  He  will  never  give  up  because  of  a  temporary  check, 
you  think  ?  " 

"  No,  never.  The  man  has  a  will  of  .sheer  .steel — it  may 
break,  but  it  will  not  bend.  Besides,  consider:  he  is  too 
deeply  involved.  You  have  seen  him  ;  you  know  ;  and  he 
knows  you  know.  You  may  bring  this  thing  home  to  him. 
Then  what  is  his  plain  policy  ?  Why,  to  egg  on  the  natives 
whose  confidence  he  has  somehow  gained  into  making  a  fur- 
ther attack,  and  cutting  off  all  Salisbury.  If  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  you  and  me  massacred  at  Klaas's,  as  he 
hoped,  he  would  no  doubt  have  slunk  off  to  the  coast  at 
once,  leaving  his  black  dupes  to  be  shot  down  at  leisure  by 
Rhodes' s  soldiers. ' ' 

"  I  see  ;  but  having  failed  in  that  ?  " 


The  r.uropcan  with  the  Kaftir  Heart    239 


"  Tlien  he  is  hound  to  ^o  througli  with  it,  nnd  kill  us  if 
he  can,  even  if  he  has  to  kill  all  vSalishury  with  us.  That,  I 
feel  sure,  is  Sehastian's  plan.  Whether  he  can  get  the  Mata- 
hcle  to  back  him  up  in  it  or  not  is  a  different  matter." 

"  Hut  takinj^r  Sel)astian  himself  ;  alone  ?  " 

"  Oil,  Sebastian  himself  alone  would  naturally  say:  '  Never 
mind  Huluwayo  !  Concentrate  round  Salisbury,  and  kill 
off  all  there  first  ;  when  that  is  'h^re,  then  you  can  move  on 
at  your  ease  and  cut  them  tr  pis;«.."S  in  Charter  and  liulu- 
wayo.'  Vou  see,  he  would  luiv^  .o  interest  in  the  move- 
ment, himself,  once  he  had  fairly  got  rid  of  us  here.  The 
Matabele  are  or.iy  the  pieces  'n  his  game.  It  is  7fU'  he 
wants,  not  Sali.sbury.  He  would  clear  out  of  Rhodesia  as 
soon  as  he  had  carried  his  point.  But  he  would  have  to 
give  some  rea.sonable  ground  to  the  Matabele  for  his  first 
advice  ;  and  it  seems  a  reasonable  ground  to  say,  '  Don't 
leave  Salisbury  in  your  rear,  .so  as  to  put  yourselves  be- 
tween two  fires.  Capture  the  outpost  first;  that  down,  march 
on  undistracted  to  the  principal  stronghold.'    " 

"  Who  is  vo  tactician  ?  "  I  mnrmured,  half  aloud. 

She  laughed.  "  That 's  not  tactics,  Hubert;  that  's  plain 
connnon  sense — and  knowledge  of  Sebastian.  vStill,  it  comes 
to  nothing.  The  questiun  is  not,  '  What  would  vSebastian 
wish  ? '  it  is,  '  Could  Sebastian  persuade  these  angry  black 
men  to  accept  his  guidance  ?  '  " 

"Sebastian!"  I  cried;  "Sebastian  could  persuade  the 
very  devil  !  I  know  the  man's  fiery  enthusiasm,  his  con- 
tagious eloquence.  He  thrilled  me  thr.iigh,  myself,  with 
ii'S  electric  personality,  so  that  it  took  me  six  years  —  and 
your  aid  —  to  find  him  out  at  last.  His  very  ab.stractness 
telk.     Why,  even  in  this  war,  you  may  be  sure,  he  will  be 


f'1 


240 


Hilda  Wade 


|IW»'Hi 


niakiiis^  notes  all  tlie  time  on  the  ^lealini^  of  wounds  in  trop- 
ical climates,  contrasting  the  /.frican  with  the  LCiiropean 
constitution." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  of  course.  Whatever  he  does,  he  will  never 
forget  the  interests  of  science.  He  is  true  to  his  ladj'-love, 
to  whomever  else  he  plays  false.    That  is  his  saving  virtue." 

"  And  he  will  talk  down  the  Matc>))ele,"  I  went  on,  "  even 
if  he  does  n't  know  their  language.  Hut  I  suspect  he  does; 
for,  you  nuist  remember,  he  was  three  years  in  vSoutli  Africa 
as  a  3-oung  man,  on  a  scientific  expedition,  collecting  .speci- 
men.s.  He  can  ride  like  a  trooper;  and  he  knows  he 
country.  His  masterful  ways,  his  austere  face,  will  cow  the 
natives.  Then,  again,  he  has  the  air  of  a  prophet;  and 
prophets  always  stir  the  negro.  I  cat;  imagine  with  what 
air  he  will  hid  them  drive  out  the  intrusive  white  men  who 
have  usurped  their  land,  and  draw  them  flattering  pictures 
of  a  new  Matabele  empire  about  to  arise  under  a  new  chief, 
too  .strong  for  these  gold-grubbing,  diamond-huutiug  mobs 
from  over  sea  to  meddle  with." 

She  reflected  once  more.  "  Do  you  mean  to  .say  anything 
of  our  suspicions  in  Salisbury,  Hubert  ?  "  .she  asked  at  last. 

"  It  is  useless,"  I  answered.  "  The  vSalisbury  folk  believe 
there  is  a  white  man  at  the  bottom  of  this  trouble  already. 
They  will  tr}'  to  catch  him  ;  that  's  all  that  is  necessary. 
If  we  .said  it  was  Sebastian,  people  would  only  laugh  at  us. 
They  nuist  understand  Sebastian,  as  you  and  I  understand 
him,  before  they  would  think  such  a  move  credible.  As  a 
rule  in  life,  if  you  know  anything  which  other  people  do  not 
know,  better  keep  it  to  your.self ;  you  will  only  get  laughed 
at  as  a  fool  for  telling  it." 

"  I  think  so,  too.     That  is  why  I  never  say  what  I  suspect 


The  European  with  the  Kaffir  Heart    241 

or  infer  from  my  knowledge  of  tyfK'S  -  except  to  ii  few  who 
can  utulerstatul  and  appreciate.  Ilnbert,  if  they  all  arm  for 
the  defence  of  the  town,  yon  will  stop  here,  1  snppose,  to 
lend  the  wonnded  ?  " 

Her  lips  trembled  as  she  spoke,  and  she  gazed  at  me  with 
a  strange  wistfnlness.  "  No,  dearest,"  I  answered  at  once, 
taking  her  face  in  my  hands.  "  I  shall  fight  with  the  rest. 
vSalishnry  has  more  need  to-day  of  fighters  than  of  healers." 

"  I  thonght  yon  would,"  .she  answered,  slowly.  "  And  I 
think  yon  do  right."  Her  face  was  .set  white  ;  .she  played 
nervously  with  the  baby.  "  I  would  not  urge  you  ;  but  I 
am  glad  you  say  so.  I  want  you  to  .stop  ;  yet  I  could  not 
love  you  so  much  if  I  did  not  .see  you  ready  to  play  the  man 
at  such  a  crisis." 

"  I  .shall  give  in  my  name  with  the  rest,"  I  answered. 

"  Huliert,  it  is  hard  to  spare  you  —  hard  to  send  you  to 
such  danger.  But  for  one  other  thing,  I  am  glad  you  nre 
going.  .  .  .  They  must  take  Seba.stian  alive  ;  they  must 
nofkWl  him." 

"  They  will  shoot  him  red-handed  if  they  catch  him,"  I 
answered  confidently.  "  A  white  man  who  sides  with  the 
blacks  in  an  in.surrection !  " 

"  Then  yo?i  must  .see  that  they  do  not  do  it.  They  must 
bring  him  in  alive,  and  try  him  legally.  For  me  —  and 
thereiore  for  you  —  that  is  of  the  first  importance." 

'    Why  .so,  Hilda?" 

"  Hubert,  you  want  to  marry  me."  I  nodded  vehemently. 
"'  Well,  you  know  I  can  only  marry  you  on  one  condition — 
that  I  have  succeeded  first  in  clearing  my  father's  memory. 
Now,  the  only  man  living  who  can  clear  it  is  Sebastian.  If 
Sebastian  were  to  be  shot,  it  could  ?iever  be  cleared  —  and 

i6 


242 


Hilda  VVado 


■ ;  t      r 


'■' 


il^il!'?'? 


,   ^ 


,1  ■-. 


then,  law  of  Medes  and  Persians,  I  could  never  marry 
you." 

"  IJut  how  can  you  expect  wSebastian,  of  all  men,  to  clear 
it,  Hilda  ?  "  1  cried.  "He  is  ready  to  kill  us  l)oth,  merely 
to  prevent  your  attempting  a  revision  ;  is  it  likely  you  can 
force  him  to  confess  his  crime,  still  less  induce  him  to  admit 
it  voluntarily  ?  " 

She  placed  her  hands  over  her  eyes  and  pressed  them 
hard  with  a  strange,  prophetic  air  she  often  had  about 
her  when  she  gazed  into  the  future.  "  I  know  my  man," 
she  answered,  slowly,  without  uncovering  her  eyes.  *'  I 
know  how  I  can  do  it — if  the  chance  ever  comes  to  me.  But 
the  chance  must  come  first.  It  is  hard  to  find.  I  lost  it 
once  at  Nathaniel's.  I  must  not  lose  it  again.  It  Sebas- 
tian is  killed  skulking  here  in  Rhodesia,  my  life's  purpose 
will  have  failed  ;  I  .shall  not  have  vindicated  my  father's 
good  name  ;  and  then,  we  can  never  marry." 

"  So  I  understand,  Hilda,  my  orders  are  these  :  I  am  to  go 
out  and  fight  for  the  women  and  children,  if  possil)le;  that 
vSebaslian  shall  be  made  prisoner  alive,  and  on  no  account  to 
let  him  be  killed  in  the  open  !  " 

"  I  give  you  no  orders,  Hubert.  I  tell  you  how  it  seems 
best  to  me.  But  if  Sebastian  is  shot  dead — then  you  under- 
stand it  must  be  all  over  between  us.  I  ?i{'zrr  can  marry  you 
until,  or  unless,  1  have  cleared  my  father," 

"  Sebastian  shall  not  be  shot  dead,"  I  cried,  with  my 
youthful  impetuosity.  '*  He  shall  be  brought  in  alive, 
though  all  Salisbury  as  one  man  try  its  best  to  lynch  him." 

I  went  out  to  report  my. self  as  a  volunteer  for  service. 
Within  the  next  few  hours  the  whole  town  had  been  put  in 
a  state  of  siege,  and  all  available  men  armed  to  oppose  the 


i  : 

( 


ii'iii 


The  luiropcan  with  the  Kaffir  Heart    243 

insiir^ctil  Matalw.ic.  Hasty  preparations  were  made  for  de- 
fence. Tile  ox-wa^Kons  of  settlers  were  drawn  uj)  outside 
in  little  circles  here  and  there,  so  as  to  form  laagers,  which 
acted  practically  as  temporary  forts  for  the  protection  of  the 
outskirts.  In  one  of  these  I  was  posted.  With  our  com- 
pany were  two  American  scouts,  named  Colehrook  and  Doo- 


I    TRMID    10   DKAW   II I M    Ol   I 


little,  irregular  fighters  whose  value  in  »South  African 
campaigns  had  already  been  tested  in  tlie  old  Matahele  war 
against  Lo-Bengula.  Colebrook,  in  particular,  was  an  odd- 
looking  creature  —  a  tall,  .spare  man,  bodied  like  a  weasel. 
He  was  red-haired,  ferret-eyed,  am'  an  excellent  .scout,  but 
scrappier  and  more  inarticulate  in  his  mair.ier  of  .speech  than 
any  human  being  I  had  ever  encountered.  His  conversation 
was  a  series  of  rapid  interjections,  jerked  out  at  intervals, 
and  made  comprehensible  by  a  running  play  of  gesture  and 
attitude. 

"  Well,  yes,"  he  said,  when  I  tried  to  draw  him  out  on 


244 


Hilda  Wade 


::;■!  t 


the  Matahele  mode  of  fightinj;.  "  Not  on  the  open.  P^ever! 
Grass,  if  you  like.  Or  bii.shes.  The  eyes  of  them  !  The 
eyes  !  .  .  ."  He  leaned  eagerly  forward,  as  if  looking 
for  something.  "  vSee  here,  Doctor  ;  I  'm  telling  \  hi. 
vSpots.  Cileaming.  Among  the  grass.  Long  gra.ss.  And 
armed,  too.  A  pair  of  'em  each.  One  to  throw  " — he  rai.sed 
his  hand  as  if  lancing  something  —  "the  other  for  close 
fighting.  A.ssegais,  you  know.  That  's  the  name  of  it. 
Only  the  eyes.  Creeping,  creeping,  creeping.  No  noise. 
One  rai.sed.  Waggons  drawn  up  in  laager.  Oxen  out- 
spamied  in  the  middle.  Trekking  all  day.  Tired  out;  dog 
tired.  Crawl,  crawl,  crawl  !  Hands  and  knees.  Might  be 
.snakes.  A  wriggle.  Men  sitting  about  the  camj)  fire. 
vSmoking.  Gleam  of  their  eyes  !  Under  the  waggons. 
Nearer,  nearer,  nearer  !  Then,  the  throwing  ones  in  your 
midst.  Shower  of  'em.  Right  and  left.  '  Halloa  !  .stand 
by,  l)oys  !  '  Look  up  ;  see  'em  swarming,  black  like  ants, 
over  the  waggons.  Inside  the  laager.  Snatch  uf>  rilles  ! 
All  up  !  Oxen  stampeding,  men  running,  l)lacks  .sticking 
'em  like  pigs  in  the  back  with  their  assegais,  liad  job,  the 
whole  thing.  Don't  care  for  it,  myjielf.  Very  tough  'unsto 
fight.     If  they  once  break  laager." 

"  Then  you  .should  never  let  them  get  to  clo.se  quarters," 
I  suggested,  catching  the  general  drift  of  his  inarticulate 
swift  pictures. 

"  You  're  a  square  man,  you  are,  Doctor  !  There  you 
touch  the  spot.  Never  let  'em  get  at  close  quarters.  vSen- 
tries  ? — creep  past 'em.  Outposts? — crawl  between.  Had 
Forbes  and  Wilson  like  that.  Cut  'em  off.  Per-dition  ! 
.  .  .  But  Maxims  will  do  it  !  Maxims  !  Never  let  em 
get  near.     Sweep  the  ground  all  round.      D-rned  hard, 


ever ! 
The 


lies! 

ckins 

,  the 

lis  to 


"  WE   WAiCiltD    BY    TURNS.' 


lard. 


345 


246 


Hilda  Wacic 


11  ' 


1 1 


;;'! 


ii!   I 


i       H 


i|: 


though,  to  know  just  7i/n'fi  they  're  coining.  A  night  ;  two 
nights  ;  all  clear  ;  only  waste  annnunilion.  Third,  ihey 
swarm  like  bees  ;  break  laager  ;  all  over  !  " 

This  was  not  exactly  an  agreeable  picture  of  what  we  had 
to  expect — the  more  so  as  our  i)arlicular  laager  happened  to 
have  no  Maxims.  However,  we  kept  a  sharp  lookout  for 
ihcs»»  sfleaniing  eyes  in  the  long  grass  of  which  Colebrook 
warned  us  ;  their  ilashing  light  was  the  one  thing  to  be  seen, 
at  night  above  all,  when  the  black  bodies  could  crawl  un- 
perceived  througii  the  tall  dry  herbage.  On  our  first  night 
out  we  had  no  adventures.  We  watched  by  turns  outside, 
relieving  sentry  from  time  to  lime,  while  those  of  us  who 
slept  within  ihe  laager  slept  on  the  bare  ground  with  our 
arms  beside  us.  Nobody  .spoke  much.  The  ten.sion  was  too 
great.     ICvery  moment  we  expected  an  attack  of  the  enemy. 

Next  day  news  reached  us  by  .scouts  from  all  the  other 
laagers.  None  of  them  had  been  attackeil  ;  but  in  all  there 
was  a  deep,  half  instinctive  belief  that  the  Matabele  in  force 
were  drawing  step  by  .step  closer  and  closer  around  us.  ho- 
Bengula's  old*impis,  or  native  regiment!-,  had  gathered  to- 
gether once  more  under  their  own  indunas — men  trained  and 
drilled  in  all  the  arts  and  ruses  of  savage  warfare.  On  their 
own  ground,  and  among  their  native  .scrub,  those  rude 
strategi.sts  are  formidable.  They  know  the  country,  and 
how  to  fight  in  it.  We  had  nothing  to  oppose  to  them  but 
a  handful  of  the  new  Matabeleland  police,  an  old  regular 
.soldier  or  two,  and  a  raw  crowd  of  volunteers,  most  of  whom, 
like  myself,  had  never  before  really  handled  a  rifle. 

That  afternoon,  the  Major  in  command  decided  to  send 
out  the  two  American  scouts  to  scour  the  grass  and  discover, 
if  pos.sible,  how  near  our  lines  the  Matabele  had  penetrated. 


The  MuroMcan  with  tlic  K.itlir  Heart    2.\7 


at 


I  l)c'K«e(l  hard  to  In;  pcnnittal  to  accompany  tlictti.  I 
wanted,  if  I  conld,  to  K»-*t  cviilcnco  ajjainst  Sebastian  ;  or,  at 
least,  to  learn  whether  he  was  still  directing;  and  assisting 
the  enemy.  At  first,  the  .sconts  lanKhcd  at  njy  re<iuest  ;  i»nt 
when  I  tolfl  them  privately  that  I  l)elieved  I  had  a  clue 
a^aitist  the  white  traitor  who  had  caused  the  revolt,  and  th.it 
I  wished  to  identify  hin>,  they  changed  their  tone,  and  began 
to  think  there  might  he  .something  in  it. 

"  I')xi)erience  ?  "  Colel)ro()k  asked  in  his  brief  shorthand 
of  speech,  rniming  his  ferret  eves  over  me. 

"  None,"  I  answered  ;  "  bnt  a  tjoisele.ss  tread  a!id  a 
capacity  for  crawling  throngh  holes  in  hedges  which  may 
pjrhaps  be  usefnl." 

He  glanced  incpiiry  at  Doolittle,  who  was  a  shorter  and 
stonter  man,  with  a  knack  of  getting  over  obstacles  by  .sheer 
force  fnlne.ss. 

"  Hands  and  knees!  "  he  said,  abrnptly,  in  the  imperative 
mood,  pointing  to  a  clnmp  of  dry  grass  with  thorny  bushes 
ringed  about  it. 

I  went  down  on  my  hands  unO  knees,  and  threaded  my 
way  through  the  long  grasses  and  matted  boughs  as  noi.se- 
le.s.sly  as  I  could.  The  two  old  hands  w.itched  me.  When 
I  emerg'.'d  several  yards  off,  much  to  their  surprise,  Cole- 
brook  turned  to  Doolittle.  "  Might  answer,"  he  said  curlly. 
*'  Major  says,  'Choose  your  own  men.'  Anyhow,  if  they 
catch  him,  nobody's  fault  but  his.    Wants  to  go.    Will  doit." 

We  .set  out  through  the  long  grass  together,  walking  erect 
at  first,  till  we  had  got  .some  distance  from  the  laager,  and 
then,  creeping  as  the  Matabele  themselves  creep,  without  dis- 
placing the  grass-flowers,  for  a  mere  wave  on  top  would  have 
betrayed  us  at  once  to  the  quick  eyes  of  those  observant 


u 


24S 


Hilda  Wailc 


i 


!      1 
',,'.1 


i     >• 


I 


¥^.  ^ 


^tw  yi 


iri:      .' 


rfe 


n.::l 


:.    ' 


:i- 


Hfivnpfos.  We  crept  on  for  ft  mile  or  so.  At  last.  Colebrook 
turned  to  rj  one  fm^er  on  his  li]vs  His  ferret  e\es 
y;leaineil.  We  were  approinhinj;  n  wooded  hill,  all  inter- 
spersed with  lionldcrs.  '*  Kairirshcrc  !  "  lie  whispered  low, 
us  if  he  knew  hy  instinct.  //<'.t'  he  knew,  I  cannot  tell  ;  he 
seen  Jed  almost  to  .scetit  theni. 

\Vu  stole  on  farther,  Koin>;  more  fnrtivel>  than  ever  now. 
1  conld  notice  hv  this  time  that  there  were  wn^^ons  in  front, 
.'Hid  could  hear  men  speaking  in  thenr  I  wanted  to  proceed, 
but  Colebrook  held  up  one  warning;  hand.  "  Won't  do," 
he  said,  shortly,  in  a  low  tone.  "Only  my.self.  D.mj^er 
ahead  !     Stop  here  and  wait  for  me." 

l>ouliltleaiul  mysclfwaited.  '/olcbrook  kept  on  cautiously, 
sfpiirmiii}^  his  lon^  body  in  sinuous  waves  like  n  li/ard's 
thiou^^h  the  j^rass.  and  was  soon  lost  to  us.  No  snake  cuuKl 
have  jcn  lither.  We  waited,  with  cars  intent.  One 
minute,  two  minutes,  many  minutes  passed.  We  could 
catch  tlie  voices  of  the  Kaffirs  in  the  bush  all  roiuid.  'IMiey 
were  speakinji:  freely,  but  what  they  said  I  ilid  not  ktiow,  im 
I  had  picked  up  only  a  very  few  words  of  the  MatabL-ie 
laiiKuaj^e. 

It  .seemed  hours  while  we  waited,  still  as  mice  in  our  am- 
bush, and  alert  I  began  to  think  Colebrook  m'<t  h 
been  lost  or  killed — .so  long  was  he  gone — and  that  we  ii.u.st 
return  without  him.  At  lasf — we  leaned  forward — a  muflled 
movement  in  the  gra.ss  ahead  I  A  .slight  wave  at  the  base  ! 
Then  it  divided  below,  bit  by  bit,  while  the  tops  rcmaineil 
.stationary.  A  wea.sel-like  body  slank  noi.selessly  through. 
Finger  on  lips  once  more,  Colebrook  glided  beside  us.  W^e 
turned  and  crawled  back,  stifling  our  very  pulses.  For 
many  minutes  none  of  us  spoke.     But  we  heard  in  our  rear 


J 


ir  ant- 
h  V  . 

ii.:..st 

iiink'd 

)ase  1 
laiiictl 

We 

For 
r  rear 


C       '', 


«     J) 


•jf     J 


T 


i» 


ik 


•M 


"f    < 


1 

■'    1 

1        ?      ■' 

i 

.  !. » 

^' 

1  i '         '       .( 

H 

■1/*               ! 

1 

1              i 

1 

Tr   ,  , 

1 

II"'   ' 

350 


llild.i  W.ulc 


a  loittl  cry  and  a  NhakiiiK  of  aHMcKnin  ;  the  KafTirs  lichind  im 
were  yillliij;  friKlitruIly.  Tlicy  innst  linve  HiiKiH'Cted  ^<otllc• 
thinj;  .Ht'fU  some  moveiiu-nt  in  the  ttifteil  IjcuIh  of  ^ra^H,  for 
they  spread  al»road,    shouting;.       We    halle«l,    holdiii);    our 


"  iiK  's  TiiKRK,  RKarr  KNou(;n." 

breath.  After  a  time,  however,  the  noise  died  down. 
They  were  moving  another  way.  We  crept  on  again, 
stealthily. 

When,  at  last,  after  many  minntes,  we  fonnd  ourselves  be- 
yond a  sheltering  belt  of  brushwood,  we  ventured  to  rise  and 


I 

A] 

I 


'I'lu'  r'.uro|Han  with  llu*  K.itVir  Iliart    551 

Hpcnk.  "  Well  ?"  I  ahkcil  of  Colcl.rook.  **  DIU  you  til*- 
cover  auylhiu^c  ? " 

lU-  iioddcil  assent.  "  CotiM  ii'l  sic  hliii."  ho  saicl  sliortly. 
"  liul  he  's  ihcrc,  riKi>t  viu)Iik'>-  \N'l>ilc  man,  lUanl  cm 
talk  oriiitn." 

*'  What  ilid  Ihcy  May  ?  "  I  asked,  ea^;erly. 

"Slid  he  hatl  a  white  skin.  I»nt  his  heart  w.is  a  Kallir'n. 
(ire.it  indnna;  leader  of  ni.iny  iinpi.s.  Prophet,  wise  weather 
diK'tor  !  I'riend  of  J)ld  Moselekatse's.  Destroy  the  white 
nun  from  over  the  hi^  water  ;  re.store  the  lind  to  the  Matn- 
hele.  Kill  all  in  Salislmry,  espevially  the  white  women. 
Witches  all  witches.  They  ^ive  vharms  to  the  nien  ;  eook 
lion^'  hearts  for  them  ;  make  them  brave  with  love  ilriiiks." 

"  They  said  thai  '  "  I  exclaimed,  taken  altack.  *'  Kill  all 
the  white  women  !  " 

•'  Yes.  Kill  all.  White  witches,  everyone.  The  young 
ones  worst.     Word  of  the  Kr<-'at  indnna." 

"  And  yon  conld  not  see  him  ^  " 

"  Crej)t  near  wapi^ons,  close.  I'ellow  himself  inside. 
Heard  his  voice;  spoke  ICn.nlish,  with  a  little  Mataiielc. 
Knllir  hoy  who  was  servant  at  the  mission  interpreted." 

"What  sort  of  voice?  Like  this?"  And  I  imitated 
.Sebastian's  cold,  clear-cnt  tone  as  well  as  I  was  able. 

"  The  man  !  That  's  him,  Doctor.  Von  've  ^ot  him 
down  to  the  ground.  The  very  voice.  Heard  him  giving 
orders." 

That  settled  the  (jnestion.  I  was  certain  of  it  now. 
vSebastian  was  with  the  insurgents. 

VV^e  made  our  way  l)ack  to  our  laager,  flung  ourselves 
down,  and  slept  a  little  on  the  ground  before  taking  our  turn 
in  the  fatigues  of  the  night  watch.     (Jur  horses  were  loo.sely 


252 


Hilda  Wade 


,  li  '■ 


f'.'  ' 


M  \ 


II 


tic'il,  ready  for  any  sucklcii  alarm.  About  midnight,  we 
three  were  sitting  witli  others  about  the  fire,  talking  low  to 
one  another.  All  at  once  Doolittle  sprang  up,  alert  and 
eager.  "  Look  out,  boys  '  "  he  cried,  pointing  his  hands 
under  the  waggons.  "  What  's  wriggling  in  the  grass 
there?" 

I  looked,  and  saw  nothing.  Our  sentries  were  j>osted  out- 
.side,  about  a  hundred  yards  apart,  walking  up  and  down  till 
they  met,  and  exchanging  "  All  's  well  "  aloud  at  each 
meeting. 

"  They  should  have  been  .stationary  !  "  one  of  our  scouts 
exclaimed,  looking  out  at  them.  "  It 's  easier  for  the  Mata- 
bele  to  see  then.i  so,  when  they  walk  up  and  down,  moving 
again.st  the  .sky.  The  Major  ought  to  have  posted  thcni 
where  it  would  n't  have  been  so  simple  for  a  Kaffir  to  .see 
them  and  creep  in  between  them  !  " 

"  Too  late  now,  boys  !  "  Colebrook  bur.st  out,  with  a  rare 
effort  of  articulateness.  "  Call  back  the  .sentries,  Major  ! 
The  blacks  have  broken  line  !  Hold  there  !  They  're  in 
upon  us  !  " 

I'A'en  as  he  .spoke,  I  followed  his  eager  pointing  hand  with 
my  eyes,  and  ju.st  descried  among  the  grass  two  gleaming 
objects,  .seen  under  the  hollow  of  one  of  the  waggons.  Two: 
then  two;  then  two  again;  and  behind,  whole  pairs  of  them. 
They  looked  like  twin  stars;  but  they  were  eyes,  black  eyes, 
reflecting  the  starlight  and  the  red  glare  of  the  camp-fire. 
They  crept  on  tortuously  in  serpentine  curves  through  the 
long,  dry  grasses.  I  could  feel,  rather  than  see,  that  they 
were  Matabele,  crawling  prone  on  their  bellies,  and  trailing 
their  snake-like  way  between  the  dark  jungle.  Quick  as 
thought,  I  raised  my  rifle  and  blazed  away  at  the  foremost. 


they 

failing 

^k  as 

JlllOSt. 


•*A   WILU  WOMliiNT  tOLLOWIiU. 


253 


w 


v^ 

h' 


ivy 


\\\  ^ 


if^P 


'I 


•  •I   •! 


,  I 


I! 


ii 


ffi 


18.' 


t 


il  i 


254 


IlikkiWadc 


So  did  several  others.  Uiit  tiie  Major  shouted,  atigrily: 
"  Wlio  fired  ?  Don't  shoot,  1)0\  ^i,  till  you  hear  the  word  of 
coiuniand  !  Hack,  sentries,  to  laager!  Not  a  shot  till 
they  're  safe  inside  !     You  '11  hit  your  own  people  !  " 

Almost  before  he  said  it,  the  sentries  darted  back.  The 
Matabele,  crouching  on  hands  and  knees  in  the  long  grass, 
had  passed  between  them  unseen.  A  wild  moment  followed. 
I  can  hardly  describe  it;  the  whole  thing  was  so  new  to  me, 
and  took  place  .so  quickly.  Hordes  of  black  human  ants 
seemed  to  surge  up  all  at  once  over  and  under  the  waggons. 
Assegais  whizzed  through  the  air,  or  gleamed  brandished 
around  one.  Our  men  fell  back  to  the  centre  of  the  laager, 
and  formed  themselves  hastily  under  the  Major's  orders. 
Then  a  pause  ;  a  deadly  fire.  Once,  twice,  thrice  we  vol- 
leyed. The  Matabele  fell  by  dozens  —  but  they  came  on  by 
hundreds.  As  fast  as  we  fired  and  mowed  down  one  .swarm, 
fresh  swarms  seemed  to  spring  from  the  earth  and  stream 
over  the  waggons.  Others  appeared  to  grow  up  almost  be- 
neath our  feet  as  they  wormed  their  way  on  their  faces  along 
the  ground  between  the  wheels,  squirmed  into  the  circle,  and 
then  rose  suddenly,  erect  and  naked,  in  front  of  us.  Mean- 
»;iiJe,  they  yelled  and  .shouted,  clashing  their  .spears  and 
shields.  The  oxen  bellowed.  The  rifles  volleyed.  It  was 
a  pandemonium  of  .sound  in  an  orgy  of  gloom.  Darkness, 
lurid  flame,  blood,  wounds,  death,  horror  ! 

Yet.  in  the  midst  of  all  this  hubbub,  I  could  not  help  ad- 
miring the  cool  military  calm  and  .self-control  of  our  Major. 
His  voice  rose  clear  above  the  confused  tumult.  "  Steady, 
boys,  steady  !  Don't  fire  at  random.  Pick  each  your  like- 
liest man,  and  aim  at  him  deliberately.  That  's  right;  easy 
— easy  !     Shoot  at  leisure,  and  don't  waste  ammunition  !  " 


! 


The  luuDpcaii  with  the  Kaffir  Heart    255 

He  stood  as  if  lie  were  on  parade,  in  Uie  midst  of  tliis  pal- 
pitating turmoil  of  savages.  .Some  of  us,  encouraged  by  his 
example,  mounted  the  waggons,  and  shot  from  the  tops  at 
our  approaching  assailants. 

IIow  long  the  hurly-burly  went  on,  I  catinot  say.  We 
fired,  fired,  fired,  and  Kaffirs  fell  like  sheep  ;  yet  more 
Kaffirs  rose  fresh  from  the  long  grass  to  replace  them. 
They  swarmed  with  greater  ease  now  over  the  covered 
waggons,  across  the  mangled  and  writhing  bodies  of  their 
fellows  ;  for  the  dead  outside  made  an  inclined  plane  for  the 
living  to  mount  l)y.  Hut  the  enemy  were  getting  less 
numerous,  I  thought,  and  less  anxious  to  fight.  Tiie  .steady 
fire  told  on  them.  Iiy-and-l)y,  with  a  little  halt,  for  the  finst 
time  they  wavered.  All  our  men  now  mounted  the  wag- 
gons and  began  to  fire  on  them  in  regular  volleys  as  they 
came  up.  The  evil  effiicts  of  the  surpri.se  were  gone  by  this 
time  ;  we  were  acting  with  coolness  and  obeying  orders. 
Hut  .several  of  our  people  dropped  close  beside  me,  pierced 
through  with  assegais. 

All  at  once,  as  if  a  panic  had  burst  over  them,  the  Mata- 
bele,  with  one  mind,  stopped  dead  short  in  their  advance  and 
ceased  fighting.  Till  that  moment,  no  number  of  deaths 
.seemed  to  make  any  difference  to  them.  Men  fell,  disal)led; 
others  .sprang  up  from  the  ground  by  magic.  Hut  now,  of  a 
sudden,  their  courage  flagged  —  they  falt'ired,  gave  way, 
broke,  and  shandjled  in  a  body.  At  la.st,  as  one  man,  they 
turned  and  fled.  Many  of  them  leapt  up  with  a  loud  cry 
from  the  long  grass  where  they  were  skulking,  flung  away 
their  big  shields  with  the  white  thongs  interlaced,  and  ran 
fordearlife,  black,  crouching  figures,  through  the  dense,  dry 
jungle.     They  held  their  assegais  still,  but  did  not  dare  to 


'"fl 


256 


Hilda  Wade 


[••' 


]'., 


m^ 


wl 


H 


' 


;':ii:li#iip  I, 


1"  'L. 


i 

1 

• ; 

1!            i 

it!'  •■  ' 

1 

hi  ^    1 

'  1       * 

- 

It-' 
It:-: 

1 

1 

1 

i 

» 


1 


use  tlicin.  It  was  a  flight,  ptjll-incU— and  tlie  devil  take  the 
liindniost. 

Not  until  then  had  I  leisure  to  ////-'//•,  and  to  realise  my  po- 
sition. This  was  the  first  and  only  time  I  had  ever  seen  a 
battle.  I  am  a  bit  of  a  coward,  I  believe  —  like  most  other 
men  —  though  I  have  couraj^e  enough  to  confess  it  ;  and  I 
expected  to  find  myself  lerriljly  afraid  when  it  came  to  fij;ht- 
ing.  Instead  of  that,  to  my  inunense  surprise,  once  the 
Mt'tabele  had  swarmed  over  the  laager,  and  were  upon  is  in 
their  thou.sauds,  I  had  no  time  to  be  frightened.  The  ab.so- 
htte  necessity  for  keeping  cool,  fo^  loading  and  reloading, 
for  aiming  and  firing,  for  beating  them  off  at  close  (|uarters 
— all  this  .so  occupied  one's  mind,  and  still  more  one's  hands, 
that  one  could  n't  find  room  for  any  personal  terrors. 
"  They  are  breaking  over  there  !  "  "  They  will  overpower 
us  yonder!  "  "  They  are  faltering  now!  "  Those  thoughts 
were  so  uppermost  in  one's  head,  and  one's  arms  were  .so 
alert,  that  only  after  Mie  enemy  gave  \vay,  and  began  to  run 
at  full  pelt,  could  a  uk...  find  breathing-.space  to  think  of  his 
own  safety.  Then  the  thought  occurred  to  me,  "  I  have 
been  through  my  first  figlit,  and  come  out  of  it  alive  ;  after 
all,  I  was  a  deal  less  afraid  than  I  expected  !  " 

That  took  but  a  second,  however.  Next  instant,  awaking 
to  the  altered  circiunstances,  we  were  after  them  at  lull  speed  ; 
accompauN  itig  them  on  their  way  back  to  their  kraals  the 
uplands  with  a  running  fire  as  a  farewell  attention. 

As  we  broke  laager  in  pursuit  of  them,  by  the  uncertain 
starlight  we  saw  a  .sight  which  made  us  boil  with  indigna- 
tion. A  mounted  man  turned  and  fled  before  them.  He 
seemed  their  leader,  un.seen  till  then.  He  was  dres.sed  like 
a  European  —  tall,  thin,  unbending,  in  a  greyish-white  suit. 


akc  the 


luy  po- 
•  seen  a 
St  other 
;  and  I 
;o  fiKlil 
lUce  tlK' 
on  V  s  in 
he  abso- 
Uiadiui;-, 
(luartcrs 
s  hands, 

icrrors. 
/erpower 
thoughts 

were  so 
in  to  rnn 
ik  of  his 

■  I  have 

e  ;  after 

lawakins 
ill  speed ; 
Ills  '  ■  the 

Imcertain 
[indigna- 
lem.  He 
Issed  like 
hite  suit. 


■i-i 


ill 


^i 


258 


Hilda  Wacic 


i  « 


!» 


!'l.^ 


Ir 


<*f  r 


(pi 


He  rode  a  good  lu  se,  and  sat  it  well;  his  air  was  command- 
ing, even  as  he  tin  "d  and  fled  in  the  general  rout  from  that 
lost  battle. 

I  seized  Colebrook's  arm,  rlmost  speechless  with  anger. 
"  The  white  man  !  "  I  cried.     "  The  traitor  !  " 

He  did  not  answer  a  word,  but  with  a  set  face  of  white 
rage  loosed  his  horse  from  where  it  wa-)  tethered  among  the 
waggons.  At  the  same  moment,  I  loos<!:d  mine.  vSo  did 
Poolittle.  (^uick  as  thought,  but  .silently,  we  led  them  out 
(ill  three  where  the  laager  was  broken.  I  clutched  my 
mare's  mane,  and  .sprang  to  the  .stirrup  to  pursue  our  enemy. 
My  sorrel  bounded  off  like  a  i)ird.  The  fugitive  had  a  good 
two  minutes  start  of  us  ;  Ijut  our  hor.SLS  were  fresh,  while  his 
had  probably  been  ridden  all  day.  1  patted  my  pony's 
neck  ;  she  re.sponded  with  a  ringing  neigh  of  joy.  We  lore 
after  the  outlaw,  all  three  of  us  abrea.st.  I  felt  a  sort  of 
fierce  de'ight  in  the  reaction  after  the  fighting.  Our  ponies 
galloped  wildly  over  the  plain  ;  we  burst  out  into  the  night, 
never  heeding  th*^'  Matabele  whom  we  pa.ssed  on  the  open  in 
panic-stricken  retreat.  I  noticed  that  many  of  them  in  their 
terror  had  even  flung  away  their  shields  and  their  assegais. 

It  was  a  mad  chase  across  the  dark  veldt — we  three,  neck 
to  neck,  against  that  one  desperate  runaway.  We  rode  all 
we  knew.  I  dug  my  heels  into  my  sorrel's  flanks,  and  she 
responded  bravely.  The  tables  were  turned  now  on  our 
traitor  since  the  afternoon  of  the  massacre.  lie  was  tlie 
pursued,  and  7vc  were  the  pursuers.  We  felt  we  must  run 
him  down,  and  punish  him  for  his  treachery. 

At  a  breakneck  pace,  we  .stumbled  over  low  bushes  ;  we 
grazed  l)ig  boulders  ;  we  rolled  down  the  sides  of  steep 
ravines  ;  but  we  kept  him  in  sight  all  the  time,  dim  and 


The  luiiopcaii  with  the  K.ittn   Heart     2^() 


black  aKaiiist  the  starry  sky;  slowly,  .slowly—yes,  yes  ! — we 
^jained  uium  him.  My  pony  led  now.  The  iny.slerioiis 
while  man  rode  and  rode  -head  bent,  neik  forward  i)n. 
never  looked  behind  him.  Mil  by  bit  we  le.ssened  the  dis- 
tance between  us.  As  we  drew  near  him  at  la.st,  Doolillle 
called  out  to  me,  in  a  warning  voice:  "  Take  care,  Doctor  ! 
Have  your  revolvers  ready  !  He  "s  driven  to  bay  now  !  As 
we  api)roach,  he  '11  fire  at  us  !  " 

Then  it  came  home  to  me  in  a  flash.  I  fell  the  truth  of  it. 
"  He  (/tin-  not  fire  !  "  I  cried.  "  Ik-  dare  n<)l  turn  towards 
us.  He  cannot  show  his  face!  If  he  did,  we  mi^ht  recogui.se 
him  !" 

On  we  rode,  still  gaining.  "  Now,  now,"  I  cried,  "  we 
.shall  catch  him  !  " 

I'lven  as  1  leaned  forward  to  seize  his  rein,  the  fugitive, 
without  checking  his  horse,  without  turning  his  head,  drew 
his  revolver  from  his  belt,  and,  raising  his  hand,  fired  behind 
him  at  random.  He  fired  towards  us.  on  the  chance.  The 
bullet  whi//ed  past  my  ear,  not  hitting  anyone.  We  .scat- 
tered, right  and  left,  .still  galloping  free  and  strong.  S\'e  did 
not  return  his  fire,  as  I  had  told  the  others  of  my  dusire  to 
take  him  alive.  We  might  have  shot  his  hor.se;  but  the  risk 
of  hitting  the  rider,  coupled  with  the  confidence  we  felt  of 
eventually  hunting  him  to  earth,  restrained  us.  It  was  the 
great  mistake  we  made. 

He  had  gained  a  little  by  his  shots,  but  we  soon  caught  it 
up.     Once  more  I  .said,  "  We  are  on  him  !  " 

A  minute  later,  we  were  pidled  up  short  before  an  im- 
penetrable thicket  of  prickly  shrubs,  through  which  I  saw  at 
once  it  would  have  been  quite  impossible  to  urge  our  .stag- 
gering hor.ses. 


.I** 


f.  '  .■* 


Ml 

^id  < 

t 

Hifj 

IH  i 

• 

HI  ^ 

Hi, 

* 

Sji   ' 

^^ 

Hi' ' 

1 

260 


Hilda  Wade 


ii  :!;^ 


a 


il  ! 


Ir  ' 


illi^ 


IB  U: 


:»  .  i 


i 

''• 

The  other  iMiin,  of  course,  readied  it  before  us,  with  his 
mare's  last  breath  He  must  liave  been  uiakiu^  for  it.  in 
deed,  of  set  purpose  ;  for  tlie  seeoud  lie  arrived  at  the  edj^c 
of  the  thicket  lie  sli|>[»ed  off  his  tiretl  pouy,  aud  seeiued  to 
dive  into  the  bush  as  a  switumer  dives  off  a  rock  iuto  the 
water. 

"  We  have  hiui  uow  !  "  I  cried,  iu  a  voice  of  triuuiph. 
Aud  Colebrook  echoed,  "  We  have  hiui  !  " 

We  sprau^  dowu  (juickly.  "  Take  him  alive,  if  yon 
cau  !"  I  exrlaiuied.  reiueuibcriii.L;  Hilda's  advice.  "  I,et  us 
liiid  out  wht)  he  is,  aud  have  him  piopeily  tried  aiul  hauj;ed 
at  lluluwayo  !  Don't  i;ive  hiiu  a  .soldier's  death  !  All  he 
deserves  is  a  murderer's  !  " 

"  Vou  slop  here,"  Colebrook  said,  briefly,  fliuj^iuj;  his 
bridle  to  Dooiittle  to  hold.  "  Doctor  aud  I  follow  him. 
Thick  bush.      Knows  the  ways  of  it.     Revolvers  ready  !  " 

I  hau>K'd  my  .sorrel  to  Doolittle.  He  .stopped  behind, 
hoUlinj;  tli;-  three  foam  bespattered  aud  pautiug  horses, 
while  Colel)took  aud  I  dived  after  our  fui^itive  iuto  the 
matted  bushes. 

The  thicket,  as  I  have  said,  w.is  impeiietrable  above  ;  but 
it  was  burrowed  at  its  l)ase  by  over-groiuid  runs  of  .some  wild 
auinid— not,  I  think,  a  very  larjj^e  one  ;  they  were  ju.st  like 
the  runs  which  rabbits  make  amou<;  t^orse  and  heather,  oidy 
on  a  l)i.L;i;er  scale  -l)i;<;4er,  even,  than  a  fox's  or  badger's.  P»y 
croucliiui;  and  beudin*;  our  l)acks,  we  could  crawl  throU};h 
them  with  difTicult\"  into  the  scrubby  tangle.  It  was  hard 
work  creeping.  The  runs  divided  .soon.  Colebrook  lelt 
with  his  hands  on  the  ground:  "  I  cau  make  out  the  .spoor!  " 
he  mutteretl,  after  a  miiuite.     "  He  has  gone  on  this  way  !  " 

We  tracked  him  a  little  distance  iu,  crawling  at  times,  aud 


i^ 


1 

'Jill   !:■ 

i 

n  lii 

1 

L. 

ith  his 
•  il.  ill- 

mcd  to 
iito  the 

iiimph. 

if   yon 

lA't  US 

lumped 
All  he 

fmy;  his 

iw   him. 

dy!" 

hchiiul, 

horses, 

iito  the 

Ivc  ;  hut 
line  wild 
list  like 
ler,  only 
tr's.    P>y 
|lhroU};li 
as  hard 
bok   telt 
poor  I 
way  1 
lues,  and 


■f) 


•J 


! 


26a 


Ililtl.i  Wade 


>t  V 


^^$  I 


n     i 


1  " 


1,1.     ■        t 


m ' 


rising  now  and  again  where  tlte  runs  oi>enc<l  uut  on  to  the 
air  for  a  moment.  The  spoor  was  donhtfiil  an«l  tliu  tunnels 
tortuous.  I  felt  the  groiui<l  i'roni  time  to  time,  hut  eoiilil  not 
he  sure  of  tlie  tratks  witli  my  fingers  ;  I  was  not  a  traine<l 
.scout,  hke  Colel)rook  or  Doohttle.  We  wriggled  deeper  into 
tile  tangle.  Sonuthing  stirred  once  or  twice.  It  was  not 
far  from  me.  I  wasuncertiin  whether  it  was//////  — vSehastian 
— or  a  K.aflir  earth-hog,  tlu  animal  which  seemed  likeliest  ti> 
have  made  the  burrows.  Was  he  going  to  elude  us,  even 
now  f  Would  he  turn  upon  us  with  a  knife.'*  If  so,  could 
we  hold  him  ? 

At  last,  when  we  had  pushed  our  way  some  distance  in 
we  heard  a  wild  cry  from  outside.      It  was  Dooliltle's  voice. 
"  yuick  !  (juick  !  out  agdn  !     The  man  will  escape  !     Ik 
has  come  back  on  his  tracks,  and  rounded  !  " 

I  saw  our  mistake  at  once.  We  had  left  our  companion 
out  there  alone,  rendered  helpless  by  the  care  of  all  three 
horses. 

Colebrook  said  never  a  word.  He  was  a  man  of  action. 
He  turned  with  instinctive  haste,  and  followed  our  own 
spoor  back  again  with  his  hands  and  knees  to  the  opening 
in  the  thicket  by  which  we  had  first  entered. 

Before  we  coidd  reach  it,  however,  two  .shots  rang  out 
clear  in  the  direction  where  we  had  left  poor  Doolittle  and 
the  horse.s.  Then  a  sharj)  cry  broke  the  stillne.ss  —  the  cry 
of  a  wounded  man.  We  redoubled  our  pace.  We  knew  we 
were  outwitted. 

When  we  reached  the  open,  we  saw  at  once  by  the  uncer- 
tain light  what  had  happened.  The  fugitive  was  riding 
away  on  my  own  little  .sorrel, — riding  for  dear  life;  not  back 
the  way  we  came  from  Salisbury,  but  sideways  across  the 


The  Iiuropcan  with  thr  kdfVir  Heart    203 


veUlt  towards  Chiiuoin  nml  the  rortu^ueso  smaports.  The 
otlicr  twu  horncs,  riderless  aiul  terrified,  were  HcMmiKTinn^ 
with  h)os«;  lieels  over  the  ilark  |>laiii.  I)i)()Iitlle  was  not  to 
l)e  seen  :  he  lay,  a  black  luiti|),  amouj;  the  hhick  hushes 
ahont  him. 

We  looked  aroiitiel  for  hi»u,  ami  fouml  him.  lie  wan  ne* 
verely,  I  may  even  say  dan^jeroiisly,  wouiuled.  The  luilkt 
had  lod^-ed  in  Is  ri^iht  side.  We  had  to  catch  our  two 
horses,  and  ride  them  hack  with  our  wounded  man,  leadiii>( 
the  fu>;itive'8  nuire  in  tow,  all  blown  and  breathless.  I  stuck 
to  the  fugitive's  mare  ;  it  was  the  one  clue  we  had  now 
against  hitu.  Hut  Svbastian,  if  it  :r<r.v  Seb  istian,  had  rid.kii 
ofT  scot-fn  '.  I  understood  his  game  at  a  glance.  He  had 
got  the  belter  of  us  once  more.  lie  would  make  for  the 
coast  by  the  nearest  road,  give  himself  out  as  a  .settler 
escaped  from  the  massacre,  and  catch  the  next  ship  for  Kng- 
land  or  the  Cape,  now  this  ioi<f>  had  tailed  him. 

Ooolittle  had  not  seen  the  traitor's  face.  The  man  rose 
from-  the  bush,  he  .said,  shot  him,  seized  the  pony,  and  rode 
off  in  a  .second  with  ruthless  ha.ste.  He  was  tall  and  thin, 
but  erect  —  that  was  all  the  wounded  scout  could  tell  us 
about  his  assailant.  Ami  that  was  not  enough  to  identify 
vSebastian. 

All  danger  was  over.  We  rode  back  to  Salisbury.  The 
first  words  Hilda  said  when  she  saw  me  were;  "  Well,  he 
has  got  away  from  you  !  " 

"  Yes  ;  how  did  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  read  it  in  your  step.  But  I  gue.s.sed  as  much  before. 
He  is  so  very  keen  ;  and  you  started  too  confident." 


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Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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CHAPTER  IX 

THK    KPISODK   OF   THR    I.ADY  WHO    WAS   VERY    KXCLUSIVE 

THE  Matabele  revolt  gave  Hilda  a  prejudice  against 
Rhodesia.  I  will  confess  that  I  shared  it.  I  may  be  hard 
to  please  ;  but  it  somehow  sets  one  against  a  country 
when  one  comes  home  from  a  ride  to  find  all  the  other  occu- 
pants of  the  house  one  lives  in  massacred.  So  Hilda  decided 
to  leave  South  Africa.  By  an  odd  coincidence,  I  also 
decided  on  the  same  day  to  change  my  residence.  Hilda's 
movements  and  mine,  indeed,  coincided  curiously.  The 
moment  I  learned  she  was  going  anywhere,  I  discovered  in  a 
flash  that  I  happened  to  be  going  there  too.  I  commend 
this  strange  case  of  parallel  thought  and  action  to  the  con- 
sideration of  the  Society  for  Psychical  Research. 

vSo  I  sold  my  farm,  and  had  done  with  Rhodesia.  A  coun- 
try with  a  future  is  very  well  in  its  way  ;  but  I  am  quite 
Ibseni.sh  in  my  preference  for  a  country  with  a  past. 
Oddly  enough,  I  had  no  difficulty  in  getting  rid  of  my  white 
elephant  of  a  farm.  People  seemed  to  believe  in  Rhodesia 
none  the  less  firmly  because  of  this  slight  disturbance.  They 
treated  massacres  as  necessary  incidents  in  the  early  history 
of  a  colony  with  a  future.     And  I  do  not  deny  that  native 

264 


The  Lady  who  was  very  Exclusive    265 


risings  add  picturesquciicss.     But  I  prefer  to  take  them  in  a 
literal y  form. 

"  You  will  go  home,  of  course  ?  "  I  said  to  Hilda,  when 
we  came  to  talk  it  all  over. 

She  shook  her  head,  "To  Ivngland  ?  Oh,  no.  I  must 
pursue  my  Plan.  Sebastian  will  have  gone  home  ;  he  ex- 
pects me  to  follow." 

"  And  why  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Because — he  expects  it.  You  see,  he  is  a  good  judge  of 
character  ;  he  will  naturally  infer,  from  what  he  ktiows  of 
my  temperament,  that  after  this  experience  I  shall  want  to 
get  back  to  England  and  safety.  So  I  should — if  it  were  not 
that  I  know  he  will  expect  it.  As  it  is,  I  must  go  else- 
where; I  must  draw  him  after  me." 

"Where?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask,  Hubert  ?  " 

"  Because  —  I  want  to  know  where  I  am  going  myself. 
Wherever  you  go,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  I  shall  find  that 
I  happen  to  be  going  also." 

She  rested  her  little  chin  on  her  hand  atid  reflected  a  min- 
ute. "  Does  it  occur  to  3'ou,"  she  asked  at  last,  "  that 
people  have  tongues  ?  If  yv.  -  jto  on  following  me  like  this, 
they  will  really  begin  to  talk  a^  out  us." 

"  Now,  upon  my  word,  Hilda,"  I  cried,  "  that  is  the  very 
first  time  I  have  ever  known  you  show  a  woman's  want  of 
logic  !  I  do  not  propose  to  follow  you  ;  I  propose  to  happen 
to  be  travelling  by  the  same  steamer.  I  ask  you  to  marry 
me  ;  you  won't ;  you  admit  you  are  fond  of  me  ;  yet 
you  tell  me  not  to  come  with  you.  It  is  /  who  suggest  a 
course  which  would  prevent  people  from  chattering  —  by 
the  simple  device  of  a  wedding.       It   is  you  who  refuse. 


t\ 


't\  . 


266 


Hilda  Wade 


't,  ' 


And  then  you  turn  upon  me  like  tliis  !     Admit  that  you  are 
unreasonable." 

"  My   dear   Hubert,    have   I   ever  denied  that  I  was  a 


woman  ? ' ' 


"I    IIAVK   A    I'RKSKNTIMENT   THAT    YOU    WILL    UK    SUKrRlSliD 
TO    FIN' I)    MK    TIIKRi;." 

**  Besides,"  I  went  on,  ignoring  her  delicious  smile,  *'  I 
don't  intend  \.o  follow  you.  I  expect,  on  the  contrary,  to 
find  myself  beside  you.  When  I  know  where  you  are  going, 
I  shall  accidentally  turn  up  on  the  same  steamer.  Accidents 
will  happen.  Nobody  can  prevent  coincidences  from  occur- 
ring. You  may  marry  me,  or  you  may  not  ;  but  if  you  don't 
marry  me,  you  can't  expect  to  curtail  my  liberty  of  action, 


1 1- 


The  La(l\  who  was  xcrv  l^xclusixc    2O7 


can  you  ?  Voii  liail  belter  know  the  worst  at  once  ;  if  you 
won't  take  me,  you  must  count  upon  fmcliii^  me  at  your 
elbow  all  the  world  over  —  till  the  moment  comes  when  you 
choose  to  accept  me." 

"  Dear  Hubert,  I  am  ruinin<;  your  life  !  " 

"  An  excellent  reason,  then,  for  taking  my  advice,  and 
marryinj:,' me  instantly  !  But  you  wander  from  the  (piestion. 
Where  are  you  going  ?  That  is  the  issue  now  before  the 
house.     You  persist  in  evading  it." 

vShe  smiled,  and  came  back  to  earth.  "  Oh,  if  you  ;;///.v/ 
know,  to  India,  by  the  east  coast,  changing  steamers  at 
Aden." 

"  I^xtraordinary  !  "  I  cried.  "  Do  you  know,  Hilda,  as 
luck  will  have  it,  /  also  shall  be  on  my  way  to  Bombay  by 
the  very  same  steamer  !  " 

"  But  you  don't  know  what  steamer  it  is  ?  " 

"  No  matter.  That  only  makes  the  coinci'lence  all  the 
odder.  Whatever  the  name  of  the  .ship  may  bt,  when  you 
get  on  board,  I  hav^e  a  presentiment  that  you  will  be  surprised 
to  find  me  there." 

»She  looked  up  at  me  with  a  gathering  film  in  her  eyes. 
"  Hubert,  you  are  irrepressible  !  " 

"  I  am,  my  dear  child  ;  so  you  may  as  well  spare  yourself 
the  needless  trouble  of  trying  to  repress  me." 

If  you  rub  a  piece  of  iron  on  a  loadstone,  it  becomes  mag- 
netic. So,  I  think,  I  must  have  begun  to  acquire  some  part 
of  Hilda's  own  prophetic  strain  ;  for,  .sure  enough,  a  few 
weeks  later,  we  both  of  us  found  ourselves  on  the  German 
East  African  steamer  Kaiser  Wilhclm,  on  our  way  to  Aden 
—  exactly  as  I  had  predicted.  Which  goes  to  prove  that 
there  is  really  something  after  all  in  presentiments! 


1] 


- 1; 


i 


,1* 


n 


u 


■l*' 


<  I 


fii 


i 


n'.\  !' 


i».; 


ii>- 


I  •■»■ 


! 


!il  ! 


268 


inula  W^'ulc 


"  vSince  you  persist  in  .iccoinpanj'iiij;  ine,"  Hikla  said  to 
111c,  as  we  snt  in  our  cliairs  on  deck  the  first  evenin^  out,  "  I 
see  vvliat  I  nuist  tlo.  I  must  invent  some  plausible  and 
ostensible  reason  for  our  travellinj;  together." 

"  We  are  not  travelling  to<;etlier,"  I  answt.red.  "  We  are 
travelliiii?  by  tli'.*  same  steamer;  that  is  all  —  exactly  like 
the  rest  of  our  fellow  passenjjjers.  I  decline  to  be  dragged 
into  this  im;i};inary  partnership." 

"  Now  do  be  serious,  Hubert  !  I  am  going  to  invent  an 
object  in  life  for  us." 

"  What  object?" 

"  How  can  I  tell  yet?  I  nnist  wait  and  see  what  turns 
up.  When  we  tran.ship  at  Aden,  and  find  out  what  peojjle 
are  going  on  to  liombay  with  us,  I  shall  probal)ly  di.scover 
some  nice  married  lady  to  whom  I  can  attach  myself." 

"  And  am  I  to  attach  myself  to  her,  too  ?  " 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  never  asked  you  to  come.  You  came 
unbidden.  Yoii  must  manage  for  yourself  as  best  you  may. 
But  I  leave  nuicli  to  the  chapter  of  accidents.  We  never 
know  what  will  turn  up,  till  it  turns  up  in  the  end.  Every- 
thing comes  at  In.st,  you  know,  to  him  that  waits." 

"  And  yet,"  I  put  in,  with  a  meditative  air,  "  I  have 
never  observed  that  waiters  are  so  much  better  off  than  the 
rest  of  the  community.     They  seem  to  me " 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense.  It  is  iw/  who  are  wandering  from 
the  question  now.     Please  return  to  it." 

I  returned  at  once.  "  So  I  am  to  depend  on  what  turns  up  ?' ' 

"  Yes.  Leave  that  to  me.  When  we  see  our  fellow- 
passengers  on  the  Bombay  steamer,  I  shall  soon  discover 
some  ostensible  reason  vhy  we  two  should  be  travelling 
through  India  with  one  of  them." 


'I'hc  L.'uly  who  was  \'cry  I'Arlusi\c     201) 

"  VV'cU,  you  arc  a  witch,  Hilda,"  I  answered.  "  I  fi)iiiul 
that  out  louj;  ago  ;  )3Ut  if  you  succeed  between  here  and 
Honil)ay  in  inventing;  a  Mission,  I  sliall  he.uin  lo  beheve 
you  are  even  more  of  a  witch  tlian  I  ever  thouj^ht  you.  " 

At  Aden  we  changed  into  a  P.  and  ().  steuner.  Our  first 
evening  out  on  our  second  cruise  was  a  beautiful  one  ;  llie 
bland  Indian  Ocean  wore  its  sweetest  smile  for  us.  We  sit 
on  deck  after  dinner.  A  lady  with  a  husi)and  came  up  from 
the  cabin  while  we  sat  and  gazed  at  the  ])lacid  .sea.  I  was 
smoking  a  (|uiet  digestive  cigar.  Hilda  was  .seated  in  her 
deck  chair  next    to  me. 

The  lady  with  the  husband  looked  about  her  for  a  vacant 
space  on  which  to  place  the  chair  a  steward  was  carrying  for 
her.  There  was  plenty  of  room  on  the  ciujirter-deck.  I 
could  not  imagine  why  .she  gazed  about  her  with  such 
obtrusive  caution.  »She  inspected  the  occupants  of  the  vari- 
ous chairs  around  with  deliberate  scrutiny  through  a  long- 
handled  tortoi.se-.shell  optical  abomination.  None  of  them 
seemed  to  .satisfy  her.  After  a  minute's  effort,  during  which 
she  also  muttered  a  few  words  very  low  to  her  hu.sband,  she 
selected  an  empty  .spot  midway  between  our  group  and  the 
most  distant  group  on  the  other  side  of  us.  In  other  words, 
she  sat  as  far  away  from  everybody  present  as  the  nece.s.sarily 
re.stricted  area  of  the  quarter-deck  permitted. 

Hilda  glanced  at  me  and  smiled.  I  snatched  a  quick  look  at 
the  lady  again.  She  was  dre.ssed  with  an  amount  of  care  and 
a  smartness  of  detail  that  seemed  somewhat  uncalled  for  on  the 
Indian  Ocean.  A  cruise  on  a  P.  and  O.  .steamer  is  not  a  garden 
party.  Her  chair  was  most  luxurious,  and  had  her  name  paint- 
ed on  it,  back  and  front,  in  very  large  letters,  with  undue  ob- 
trusiveness.  I  read  it  from  where  I  sat,  "  I^ady  Meadowcroft." 


I 


1  I  ■! 


d! 


i! 


i 


i 


II 


■ .  I 


I''  i  '   '  I 

I    ■   i"    /        "l 

.I'ii      :. 

ii':     ■ 

n    ■  , 
lift 

JIT! 


1  II 


2  70 


Hilda  W.idc 


Tlic  owner  of  thu  cliairwas  tolerably  yoitn^,  not  l)a<l  look- 
iii);,  ami  most  cxjJL'iisivcly  atlirL-ii.  I Icr  face  liail  a  certain 
vacant,  lan^nid,  \\n\i  t ///Ntyir  air  which  I  hive  learned  to 
associate  with  women  of  the  Hoititaiiridh  type  —  women 
with  sma'l  hiains  and  restless  mimls,  hal>itnally  i>lnn^ed  in 
a  vortex  of  j.',aiety,  and  miserable  when  left  for  a  passing 
moment  to  their  own  resources. 

Hilda  rose  from  her  chair,  and  walked  (piietly  forward 
towards  the  bow  of  tlie  steam-.-r.  I  rose,  too,  and  accom- 
panied her.  "  Well  -'  "  she  said,  with  a  faint  touch  of  tri- 
umph in  her  voice  when  we  had  ^ot  out  of  earshot. 

"  Well,  what?"  I  answered,  unsuspecting;. 

'*  I  told  you  everything;  turned  up  at  the  end  !  "  she  .said, 
confidently.     "  I<ook  at  the  fady's  nose  !  " 

"It  does  turn  \\\)  at  the  end  —  certainly,"  I  answered, 
glancing  back  at  her.     "  lUit  I  hardly  .see " 

"  Hubert,  you  are  growing  dull  !  You  were  not  .so  at 
Nathaniel's,  .  .  .  It  is  the  lady  herself  who  has  turned 
up,  not  her  nose  —though  I  grant  you  i/iaf  turns  up  too  — 
the  lady  I  require  for  our  tour  in  India  ;  the  not  impossii)le 
chaperon." 

"  Her  no.se  tells  you  that  ?  " 

"  Her  nose,  in  part  ;  but  her  face  as  a  whole,  too,  her 
dress,  her  chair,  her  mental  attitude  to  things  in  general." 

"  My  dear  Hilda,  you  can't  mean  to  tell  me  yo:.i  have 
divined  her  whole  nature  at  a  glance,  by  magic!  " 

"  Not  wholly  at  a  glance.  I  saw  her  come  on  board,  you 
know  —  she  transhipped  from  some  other  line  at  Aden  as  we 
did,  and  I  have  been  watching  her  ever  since.  Yes,  I  think 
I  have  unravelled  her." 

You  have  been  astonishingly  quick!  "  I  cried. 


<l    T-. 


iini 


The  l.adv  wIk'  wns  very  Mxrlusivc    -^71 


I  f 


look- 
L-rtaiii 
U(l  to 
.'omcn 
^cd  ill 
assiny; 

)r\var(l 

[iccom- 

of  tri- 


lu  said, 

>i\vered, 

it  so  at 

tinned 

p  too  — 

possible 


k 


"  Perhaps— ))iit  then,  you  see, there  is  so  little  to  unravel  ! 
Some  hooks,  we  all  know,  you  juust  '  chew  and  dij^est  '  ; 
they  can  otdy  l)e  read  slowly  ;  but  some  you  can  ^lanci-  at. 
skim,  an<l  skip  :  the  mere  turniiiv;  of  the  paj;es  tells  you 
what  little  worth  knowing  there  is  in  them." 


"  '  SlIK    DOKS   n't    Look    J'KOKorM),'    I    ADMITTF.n." 


«<  01 


She  does  n't  /ooi'  profound,"  I  admitted,  casting  an  eye 
at  her  meaningless  small  features  as  we  paced  up  and  down. 
"  I  incline  to  agree  you  might  easily  skim  her." 

"  Skim  her  —  and  learn  all.     The  table  of  contents  \fi  so 
short.     .     .     .     You  see,  in  the  first  place,  she  is  extremely 


r 


▼r 


72 


Hilda  Wade 


i  ■* 


I' 


'  exclusive  '  ;  she  prides  herself  oti  her  '  excluHivencsH '  :  it, 
.'111(1  her  shoddy  title,  are  prohaMy  all  she  has  to  pride  herself 
upon,  and  she  works  them  both  hard.  She  is  a  sham  great 
lady." 

As  Hilda  spoke,  Laily  Meadowcroft  raised  a  feebly 
qneridoiis  voice.  '*  Steward  !  this  won't  do  !  I  cmi 
smell  the  engine  here.  .Move  my  chair.  I  must  go  on 
further." 

"  If  you  go  on  further  that  way,  my  lady,"  the  .steward 
answered,  good  huiiiouredly,  hut  with  a  man-servant's  defer- 
ence for  any  sort  of  title,  "  you  '11  smell  the  k^iU'V.  where 
they  're  cooking  the  dinner.  I  don't  know  which  your  lady- 
ship would  like  best— the  engine  or  the  galley." 

The  languid  figure  leaned  back  in  the  chair  with  an  nir  of 
resignation.  "  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  they  cook  the 
dinners  up  so  high,"  she  murmured,  pettishly,  to  her  hus- 
band. "  Why  can't  they  stick  the  kitchens  underground  — 
in  the  hold,  I  mean  —  instead  of  bothering  us  up  hereon 
deck  with  them  ?" 

The  husband  was  a  big,  burly,  rougli-and-ready  York- 
.shireman — stout,  somewhat  pompous,  about  forty,  with  hair 
wearing  bald  on  the  forehead  :  the  per.sonification  of  the 
successful  business  man.  "  My  dear  l')mmie,"  he  said,  in  a 
loud  voice,  with  a  North  Country  accent,  "  the  cooks  have 
got  to  live.  They  've  got  to  live  like  the  rest  of  us.  I  can 
never  persuade  you  that  the  hands  must  always  be  humoured. 
If  you  don't  humour  'em,  they  won't  work  for  you.  It  's  a 
poor  tale  when  the  hands  won't  work.  Kven  with  galleys 
on  deck,  the  life  of  a  sea-cook  is  not  generally  thowt  an 
enviable  position.  Is  not  a  happy  one  —  not  a  happy  one, 
as  the  fellah  says  in  the  opera.     You  must  humour  your 


i':  it. 
icrsclf 

I  great 

fccl)ly 

^o   on 

iteward 
s  (Iclcr- 
,  where 
ir  lady- 

II  air  of 
Dok  the 
RT  luis- 
omul  — 
here  on 

Yoik- 
illi  hair 

of  the 
litl,  ill  a 
)ks  have 
I  can 
moured. 

It  'sa 
1  galleys 
hovvt  an 
ppy  one, 
nir  yonr 


The  Lady  who  was  \cry  FA'clusi\c    273 

r(M)ks.     If  you  slnck  *cni  in  tlic  lioUl,  yon  W  gel  nodiinur 
at  all  — tliat  's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it." 

The  langnid  laily  turned  away  with  a  sii-kly.  dis:i|>i>oiiited 
air.     "  Then  they  ouglit  to  liave  a  cons«.ri|)iion,  or  .sonic- 


"   I'lIK    DMUJUrKRS    OK    THK    COMMANDKR-IN-CII I  I'.l'    DKI'.W    TIIKIK    SKIRIS 

AWAY    AS    SllK    I'ASSKD." 

thing,"  she  said,  pouting  her  lips.  "  The  Government 
ought  to  take  it  in  hand  and  manage  it  .somehow.  It  's  bad 
enough  having  to  go  by  these  beastly  steamers  to  India  at 

all,  without  having  one  's  breath  poisoned  by "  the  rest 

of  the  sentence  died  away  inaudibly  in  a  general  murmur  of 
ineffective  grumbling. 

i8 


i  1 


:•  I 


1, 


!11 


11 
■11 


1 


274 


IliUla  Wade 


•I 


"",  t 


tu 


r 


I ;  ' 


1^ 


m 


if^ 


'n 


%  1 


'•  Why  ilo  ymi  think  Hhc  in  txctitshr  *  "  I  nHkcd  IliUla  as 
we  Htrt>llc<l  on  towards  the  stern,  out  of  tlic  spoilt  child's 
hearing;. 

"  Why,  (lid  n't  yon  notice?  —  she  looked  al)ont  lier  when 
•he  came  on  deck  to  see  whether  there  was  anxhoily  who 
li'iis  anylxxly  sitting  there,  wiioni  she  nnKlit  pnt  her  chair 
near.  Ihil  the  (iovernor  of  M;i'iras  had  n't  come  n|)  from 
hiscalijn  yet  ;  and  the  wile  of  tlie  cliief  ConnnissioMcr  ol 
Onde  had  three  civilians  hany^itiK  ahoiil  her  seat  ;  and  the 
dauj;hters  of  the  Conunanderin-Chief  drew  their  skirts  away 
as  slie  passed.  So  she  iliil  the  next  best  tiling  —  sat  as  far 
apart  as  she  conid  from  the  common  herd:  meainn^  all  the 
rest  of  ns.  If  you  can't  mingle  at  once  with  the  Hest  People, 
you  can  at  least  assert  your  exclnsivene.ss  ne>;atively,  by 
declining;  to  associate  with  the  mere  multitude." 

"  Now,  Hilda,  that  is  the  first  time  1  have  ever  known 
you  to  show  any  feminine  ill-nature  !  " 

"  Ill-nature  !  Not  at  all.  I  am  merely  trying  to  arrive 
at  the  lady's  character  for  my  own  guidance.  I  rather  like 
her,  poor  little  thing.  Don't  I  tell  you  she  will  do  ?  So  far 
from  objecting  to  her,  I  mean  to  go  the  round  of  India  with 
her." 

"  You  have  decided  quickly." 

"  Well,  you  see,  if  you  in.sist  upon  accompanying  nie,  I 
vinsi  have  a  chaperon  ;  and  Lady  Meadowcroft  will  do  as 
well  as  anybody  else.  In  fact,  being  be-ladied,  she  will  do  a 
little  better,  from  the  point  of  view  of  vSociety,  though  t/iat  is 
a  detail.  The  great  matter  is  to  fix  upon  a  possible  chap- 
eron at  once,  and  get  her  well  in  hand  before  we  arrive  at 
Bondjay." 

"  But  she  .seems  so  complaining  !  "  1  interposed.     **  I  'm 


Ida  nx 
-liiM'H 

whcti 
}•  \vh(t 
r  chair 
|»  I'roin 
iicr  n( 
\u\  Ihc 
H  away 
L  as  far 
all  llio 
I'copk', 

-•ly.  i>y 

known 

arrive 
icr  like 

So  fur 
ia  with 


I 


The  l.ady  who  was  very  r.\cliisi\c    275 

afrai*!.  if  y»>ii  take  her  on,  yon    11  ^et  terribly  hored  with 

her." 

•*  If  v///  tnkcH  ////  on,  yon  mean.  She  's  not  a  lady'.s maid, 
lli()U>;h  I  intend  to  k^  with  her  ;  and  she  may  as  well  vjivo 
in  first  ns  last,  for  I  'm  k<^'i»^J-  ^^ow  see  how  nire  I  iin  l<» 
yon,  sir!  1  've  provided  yon,  too,  with  a  post  in  her  snite, 
as  yoti  ?«7//coine  with  nie.  No,  never  mind  askinK  »»e  what 
it  is  jnst  yet  ;  all  things  come  to  him  who  waits  ;  and  if  you 
will  oidy  accept  the  post  of  waiter,  1  mean  .ill  thin);s  to 
come  to  yon." 

•*  All  things.  Hilda?"  I  asked,  meaningly,  with  a  little 
tremor  of  delight. 

She  l<)i»ked  at  me  with  a  sndden  passing  tenderness  in  her 
eyes.  "  Ves,  all  thin^js,  IlnluTt.  .\11  thinj^s.  ihit  we 
mn.st  n't  trdk  of  that— thonj;h  I  hcKin  to  see  my  way  clearer 
now.  Von  shall  he  rewarded  for  yonr  constancy  at  Inst, 
dear  knight  errant.  As  to  my  chaperon,  I  'm  not  afraid  of 
her  boring;  me  ;  she  bores  herself,  poor  huly  ;  one  c;in  see 
that,  jnst  to  look  at  her  ;  bnt  she  will  be  nuich  less  bored  if 
she  has  ns  two  to  travel  with.  What  she  needs  is  constant 
companionship,  brij^ht  talk,  excitement.  She  has  come 
away  from  London,  wiiere  she  swims  with  the  crowd  .  she 
has  no  resources  of  her  own,  no  work,  no  head,  no  interests. 
Accustomed  to  a  whirl  of  foolish  gaieties,  she  wc-aries  her 
small  brain  ;  throwti  back  upon  her.self,  she  bores  herself  at 
once,  becnn.se  .she  has  nothing  interesting  to  tell  herself.  vShe 
absolutely  requires  somebody  else  to  interest  her.  »Slie  can't 
even  amu.se  her.self  with  a  book  for  three  minutes  together. 
See,  she  has  a  yellow-backed  French  novel  now,  and  .she  is 
only  able  to  read  five  lines  at  a  time  ;  then  .she  gets  tired  and 
glances  about  her  listlessly.     What  she  wants  is  someone 


ti 


,.» 


►■!:; 


I 

M 

I 


llii 

i 


' ,  * 


,.!' 


,4(: 


It   t 


'Hi 


liK 


»'•!■ 


«<    " 


iJ 


276 


Hilda  Wade 


gay,  laid  011,  to  divert  her  all  the  time  from  her  own 
inanity." 

"  Hilda,  how  wonderfully  (luick  you  are  at  reading  these 
things!  I  see  you  are  right;  but  I  could  never  have  guessed 
so  nuich  myself  from  such  small  premises." 

"  Well,  what  can  you  expect,  my  dear  hoy  ?  A  girl  like 
this,  brought  up  in  a  country  rectory,  a  girl  of  no  intellect, 
bu.sy  at  home  with  the  fowls,  and  the  pastry,  and  the  moth- 
ers' meetings — suddenly  married  offhand  to  a  wealthy  man, 
and  deprived  of  the  occupations  which  were  her  .salvation  in 
life,  to  be  plunged  into  the  whirl  of  a  London  .season,  and 
stranded  at  its  end  for  want  of  the  diversions  which,  by  dint 
of  use,  have  become  necessaries  of  life  to  her!  " 

"  Now,  Hilda,  you  are  practising  upon  my  credulity. 
You  can't  possibly  tell  from  her  look  that  .she  was  brought 
up  in  a  country  rectory." 

"  Of  cour.se  not.  You  forget.  Thare  my  memory  comes 
in.     T  simply  remember  it." 

**  You  remember  it  ?     How  ?  " 

"  Why,  just  in  the  .same  way  as  I  remembered  your  name 
and  your  mother's  when  I  was  first  introduced  to  you.  I 
yaw  a  notice  once  in  the  births,  deaths,  and  marriages — '  At 
St.  Alphege's,  Millington,  by  the  Rev.  Hugh  Clitheroe, 
M.A.,  father  of  the  bride,  Peter  Gubbins,  Esq.,  of  The 
Laurels,  Middleston,  to  Eniilia  Frances,  third  daughter  of 
the  Rev.  Hugh  Clitheroe,  rector  of  Millington.'  " 

"  Clitheroe — Gubbins  ;  what  on  earth  has  that  to  do  with 
it  ?  That  would  be  Mrs.  Gubbins  :  this  is  Lady  Meadow- 
croft." 

"  The  same  article,  as  the  shopmen  say — only  under  a  dif- 
ferent name.    A  year  or  two  later  I  read  a  notice  in  the  Times 


It 


'I1iu  Lady  who  was  very  I  exclusive 


-v; 


own 


thnt  '  I,  Ivor  de  Coiircy  Meadowcroft,  of  The  Laurels,  Mid- 
(lleston,  Mayor-ek'Ct  of  llie  Iioroui;ii  of  Middleston,  licrcby 
give  notice,  tliat  I  have  this  day  discontinued  the  use  of  tlie 
name  Peter  Oubhins.  by  which  I  was  formerly  known,  and 
have  assumed   in  lieu  thereof  the  style  and   title  of  Ivor 


'  1?  , 


I    WON   r    BK    l.AOV    C.UIiHINS. 


de  Courcy  Meadowcroft,  by  which  I  desire  in  future  to  be 
known.' 

"  A  month  or  two  later,  again  I  happened  to  light  upon  a 
notice  in  the  Ti/ij^rap//  that  the  Prince  of  Wales  had  opened 
a  new  hospital  for  incurables  at  Middleston,  and  that  the 
Mayor,  Mr.  Ivor  Meadowcroft,  had  received  an  intimation 
of  Her  Majesty's  intention  of  conferring  upon  him  the 
honour  of  knighthood.     Now  what  do  you  make  of  it  ?  " 


I! 


a 


I     4|i    ' 


2  78 


Hilda  Wade 


<  t 


m'V    * 


m  h 


m 


I' I 


mv*^  1 


!M  : 


Putting  two  and  'avo  together,"  I  answered,  with  my 
eye  on  our  subject,  "  and  taking  into  consideration  tlie 
lady's  face  and  manner,  I  shouhl  incline  to  suspect  that  she 
was  the  daughter  of  a  poor  parson,  with  the  usual  large 
family  in  inverse  proportion  to  his  means.  That  she  unex- 
pectedly made  a  good  match  with  a  very  wealthy  maiui- 
facturer  wIkj  had  raised  himself ;  and  thai  she  was  puffed 
up  accordingly  with  a  sense  of  self-importance." 

*'  Exactly.  He  is  a  millionaire,  or  something  very  like  it  ; 
and,  being  an  ambitious  girl,  as  she  understands  ambition, 
.she  got  him  to  stand  for  the  mayoralty,  I  don't  doubt,  in  the 
year  when  the  Prince  of  Wales  was  going  to  open  the  Royal 
Incurables,  on  purpose  to  secure  him  the  chance  of  a  knight- 
hood. Then  she  said,  very  reasonably,  *  I  7i'0?i'/  be  Lady 
Gubbins  —  Sir  Peter  Gubbins  !'  There  's  an  aristocratic 
name  for  you  ! — and,  by  a  stroke  of  his  pen,  he  straightway 
dis-Gubbinised  himself,  and  emerged  as  Sir  Ivor  de  Courcy 
Meadowcroft." 

"  Really,  Hilda,  you  know  everything  about  everybody  ! 
And  what  do  you  suppose  they  're  going  to  India  for  ?  " 

"  Now,  you  've  asked  me  a  hard  one.  I  have  n't  the 
faintest  notion.  .  .  .  And  yet  ...  let  me  think.  .  .  . 
How  is  this  for  a  conjecture  ?  Sir  Ivor  is  interested  in  steel 
rails,  I  believe,  and  in  railway  plant  generally.  I  'm  almost 
sure  I  've  seen  his  name  in  connection  with  steel  rails  in 
reports  of  public  meetings.  There  's  a  new  Government 
railway  now  being  built  on  the  Nepaul  frontier  —  one  of 
these  strategic  railways,  I  think  they  call  them  —  it  's  men- 
tioned in  the  papers  we  got  at  Aden.  He  might  be  going 
out  for  that.  We  can  watch  his  conversation,  and  see  what 
part  of  India  he  talks  about." 


The  Lady  who  was  \'cry  Mxchisivc    279 


"  They  don't  seem  inclined  to  ^ive  ns  nuich  chance  of 
talking,"  I  objected. 

"  No  :  they  are  7v;;r  exclnsivc.  Bnt  I  'ni  very  exclnsive, 
too.  And  I  mean  to  give  them  a  touch  of  my  exclnsivene.ss. 
I  venture  to  predict  that,  before  we  reach  liombay,  they  '11 
be  going  down  on  their  knees  and  imploring  us  to  travel 
with  them." 

At  table,  as  it  happened,  from  next  morning's  breakfast 
the  Meadowcrofls  sat  next  to  us.  Hilda  was  on  one  side  of 
me  ;  Lady  Meadowcroft  on  the  other  ;  and  beyond  lu'r  again, 
bluff  Yorkshire  vSir  Ivor,  with  his  cold,  hard,  hone.st  blue 
North  Country  eyes,  and  his  dignified,  pompous  luiglish, 
breaking  down  at  times  into  a  North  Country  colloquialism. 
They  talked  chiefly  to  each  other.  Acting  on  Hilda's 
iiLstructions,  I  took  care  not  to  engage  in  conversation  with 
our  "exclusive"  neighbour,  except  so  far  as  the  absolute 
necessities  of  the  table  compelled  me.  I  "  troubled  her  for 
the  salt"  in  the  most  frigid  voice.  "  May  I  pass  you  the 
potato  salad  ?  "  became  on  my  lips  a  barrier  of  .separation. 
Lady  Meadowcroft  marked  and  wondered.  People  of  her 
sort  are  so  anxious  to  ingratiate  themselves  with  "  all  the 
Best  People  "  that  if  they  find  you  are  wholly  unconcerned 
about  the  privilege  of  conversation  with  a  "  titled  person," 
they  instantly  judge  you  to  be  a  distinguished  character. 
As  the  days  rolled  on,  Lady  Meadowcroft' s  voice  began  to 
melt  by  degrees.  Once,  she  asked  me,  quite  civilly,  to  send 
round  the  ice  ;  she  even  saluted  me  on  the  third  day  out 
v;ith  a  polite  "  Good-morning,  doctor." 

Still,  I  maintained  (by  Hilda's  advice)  my  dignified 
reserve,  and  took  my  seat  severely  with  a  cold  "  Good- 
morning."     I  behaved  like   a   high-class  consultant,   who 


ti ; ' ! 


\'l 


'Irh 


1 '  1- 

r.l 


Ill 


,i 


r  ,*  ■' 


!M 


i  II I 


280 


Hilda  Wacic 


expects  to  be  made  Physician  in  Ordinary  to  Her 
Majesty. 

At  lunch  that  day,  Hilda  played  her  first  card  with  de- 
licious unconsciousness  —  apparent  unconsciousness;  for, 
when  she  chose,  she  was  a  consummate  actress.  She  played 
it  at  a  moment  when  Lady  Meadowcroft,  who  by  this  time 
was  burning  with  curiosity  on  our  account,  had  paused  from 
her  talk  with  her  husband  to  listen  to  us.  I  happened  to 
say  something  about  some  Oriental  curios  belonging  to  an 
aunt  of  mine  in  London.  Hilda  seized  the  opportunity. 
'*  What  did  you  say  was  her  name  ?  "  she  asked,  blandly. 

"  Why,  Lady  Tepping,"  I  answered,  in  perfect  innocence. 
"  She  has  a  fancy  for  these  things,  you  know.  She  brought 
a  lot  of  them  home  with  her  from   Burma." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  as  I  have  already  explained,  my  poor 
dear  aunt  is  an  extremely  commonplace  old  Army  widow, 
whose  husband  happened  to  get  knighted  among  the  New 
Year's  honours  for  some  brush  with  the  natives  on  the  Shan 
frontier.  But  Lady  Meadowcroft  was  at  the  stage  where  a 
title  is  a  title  ;  and  the  discovery  that  I  was  the  nephew  of  a 
"  titled  person  "  evidently  interested  her.  I  could  feel  rather 
than  see  that  she  glanced  significantly  aside  at  Sir  Ivor,  and 
that  Sir  Ivor  in  return  made  a  little  movement  of  his  shoul- 
ders equivalent  to  "  I  told  you  so." 

Now  Hilda  knew  perfectly  well  that  the  aunt  of  whom  I 
spoke  zaas  Lady  Tepping  ;  so  I  felt  sure  that  she  had  played 
this  card  of  malice  prepense,  to  pique  Lady  Meadowcroft. 

But  Lady  Meadowcroft  herself  seized  the  occasion  with  in- 
artistic avidity.  She  had  hardly  addressed  us  as  yet.  At 
the  sound  of  the  magic  passport,  she  pricked  up  her  ears,  and 
turned    to  me  suddenly.     "Burma?"    she  said,  as  if  to 


The  Lady  who  was  very  Exclusive      2S1 

conceal  the  true  reason  for  her  change  of  front.  "  lUirnia  ? 
I  liad  a  cousin  tliere  ouce.  He  was  in  the  (iloucestershire 
Regiment." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  I  auswered.  My  tone  was  one  of  utter  un- 
concern in  her  cousin's  history.  "  Miss  Wade,  will  you  tal;e 
Honibay  ducks  with  your  curry  ?  "  In  public,  I  thoui^ht  it 
wise  under  the  circumstances  to  abstain  from  callinj;  her 
Hilda.  It  might  lead  to  misconceptions  ;  people  might  .sup- 
pose we  were  more  than  fellow-travellers. 

"  You  have  had  relations  in  Burma  ?  "  Lady  Mcadowcroft 
persisted. 

I  manifested  a  desire  to  discontinue  the  conversation . 
"  Yes,"  I  answered,  coldly,  "  my  uncle  conuuanded  there." 

"  Commanded  there  !  Really  !  Ivor,  do  >ou  hear  ?  Dr. 
Cumberledge's  uncle  conuuanded  in  liurma."  A  faint  in- 
tonation on  the  word  comviandid  drew  unobtrusive  atten- 
tion to  its  social  importance.  "  May  I  ask  what  was  his 
name  ? — my  cousin  was  there,  you  see."  An  in.sipid  smile. 
"  We  may  have  friends  in  common." 

"  He  was  a  certain  Sir  Malcolm  Tepping,"  I  blurted  out, 
staring  hard  at  my  plate. 

"  Tepping  !  I  think  I  have  heard  Dick  speak  of  him, 
Ivor." 

"  Your  cou.sin,"  Sir  Ivor  answered,  with  emphatic  dignity, 
"  is  certain  to  have  mixed  with  nobbut  the  highest  officials 
in  Burma." 

"  Yes,  I  'm  sure  Dick  used  to  speak  of  a  certain  Sir  Mal- 
colm. My  cousin's  name,  Dr.  Cumberledge,  was  Maltby  — 
Captain  Richard  Maltby." 

"  Indeed,"  I  answered,  with  an  icy  stare.  "  I  cannot  pre- 
tend to  the  pleasure  of  having  met  him." 


i!! 

i||:|| 

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1 

ill 

il 

! 

i 

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, 
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ii|:ri 

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||li|l'  ' 

if  ■ 

iilJ 

IS2 


Hilda  Wade 


Be  exclusive  to  the  exclusive,  and  they  burn  to  know  you. 
From  that  nioinent  forth  Lady  Meadowcroft  pestered  us  with 
her  endeavours  to  scrape  accpiaintance.  Instead  of  tryinj^ 
how  far  slie  could  place  her  chair  from  us,  she  set  it  down  as 
near  us  as  politeness  permitted.  She  entered  into  conversa- 
tion whenever  an  opening  afforded  itself,  and  we  two  stood 
off  haughtily.  She  even  ventured  to  question  me  al)out  our 
relation  to  one  another  :  "  Miss  Wade  is  your  cousin,  I  .sup- 
pose ?  "  .she  suggested. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,"  I  answered,  with  a  glassy  .smile.  "  We 
are  not  connected  in  any  way." 

"  But  you  are  travelling  together  !  " 

"  Merely  as  you  and  I  are  travelling  together  —  fellow- 
pajssengers  on  the  same  steamer. ' ' 

"  Still,  you  have  met  before." 

"  Yes,  certainly.  Miss  Wade  was  a  nurse  at  vSt.  Nathan- 
iel's, in  London,  where  I  was  one  of  the  house  doctor.s. 
When  I  came  on  board  at  Cape  Town,  after  some  months  in 
South  Africa,  I  found  she  was  going  by  the  same  steamer  to 
India."  Which  was  literally  true.  To  have  explained  the 
rest  would  have  been  impossible,  at  least  to  anyone  who  did 
not  know  the  whole  of  Hilda's  history. 

"  And  what  are  you  both  going  to  do  when  you  get  to 
India?" 

"  Really,  Lady  Meadowcroft,"  I  said,  severely,  "  I  have 
not  asked  Miss  Wade  what  she  is  going  to  do.  If  you  in- 
quire of  her  point-blank,  as  you  have  inquired  of  me,  I  dare 
say  she  will  tell  you.  For  myself,  I  am  just  a  globe-trotter, 
amusing  myself.  I  only  want  to  have  a  look  round  at 
India." 

"  Then  you  are  not  going  out  to  take  an  appointment  ?  " 


T 


V  yon. 

swilh 
tryiiiR 
3VV11  as 
iversa- 
D  slood 
)iit  our 
I  sup- 

•'  We 


-  fellow- 


Nathan- 
doctors, 
ouths  in 
anier  to 
ned  the 
who  did 

Li  get  to 

I  have 
you  in- 
e,  I  dare 
2-trotter, 
round  at 


iii 

/I 


'ml 

o 
o 


c 


(/I 


M\\ 


I 


■'     I   li 


iient?" 


w 


w 


m--^^-* 


'I 


2S4 


IliUla  Wacic 


^  I 


fw     "i 

if 

■    •    • 

|;| 

iiii! 

1  : 

i  : 

"  ]\y  George,  I'iminic,"  ilif  hiirly  Vorkshircinan  put  in 
with  an  air  of  imnoyancc,  "  you  are  cross-(|iicsti()iiiiij;  Dr. 
Cmnhcrlcdjre  ;  nowt  less  than  cross-tjiicstioiiiii)^  liiuj  !  " 

I  wailed  a  second.  "  No,"  I  answered,  slowly.  "  I  have 
not  been  practising;  of  late.  I  am  looking;  about  tne.  I 
travel  for  enjoyment." 

That  made  her  think  better  of  me.  vShe  was  of  the  kind,  in- 
deed, who  think  better  of  a  man  if  they  believe  him  to  be  idle. 

vShe  dawdled  about  all  day  on  deck  chairs,  herself  seldom 
even  reading;  ;  and  she  was  eaj^er  now  to  dra^  Hilda  into 
conversiuion.  Hilda  resisted  ;  she  had  found  a  volume  in 
the  library  which  innnensely  intcresteil  her. 

"What  on-  you  reading,  Miss  Wade?"  I/icly  Meadow- 
roft  ciied  at  last,  quite  savagely.  It  made  her  angry  to  .see 
anybody  else  pleased  and  occupied  when  .she  herself  was 
listless. 

"  A  delightful  book  !  "  Hilda  answered.  "  TZ/r  Huddhist 
Prayinjr  Wlw:!,  b>  William  vSiu'pson." 

Lady  Meadowcroft  took  it  from  her  and  turned  the  pages 
over  with  a  languid  air.  "  Looks  awfully  dull  !  "  .she  ob- 
served, with  a  faint  smile,  at  last,  returning  it. 

*'  It  's  charming,"  Hilda  retorted,  glancing  at  one  of  the 
illustrations.  "  It  explains  so  nnich.  It  .shows  one  why 
one  turns  round  one's  chair  at  cards  for  luck  ;  and  Vv^hy, 
when  a  church  is  consecrated,  the  bishop  walks  three  times 
about  it  sunwise." 

"  Our  Bi.shop  is  a  dreadfully  prosy  old  gentleman,"  Lady 
Meadowcroft  answered,  gliding  off  at  a  tangent  on  a  person- 
ality, as  is  the  wont  of  her  kind;  "  he  had.  oh,  such  a  dread- 
ful quarrel  with  my  father  over  the  rules  of  the  St.  Alphege 
Schools  at  Millington." 


The  I.ady  ulio  was  very  Mxclusixc    2S5 


lut  in, 
UK  Dr. 

I  have 
tnu.     I 

iiul,  in- 
l)c  idle, 
seldom 
da  into 
lune  in 

[eadow- 
y  to  sec 
;elf  was 

tuddhisl 

e  pages 
she  ob- 

of  the 
lie  why 
d  why, 
e  times 

"  Lady 
person- 
i  dread- 
^1  phage 


"  Indeed,"  Hilda  answered,  turning  once  more  to  her 
hook.  Lady  Meadowcroft  looked  annoyed.  It  woidd  never 
have  occurred  to  her  that  within  a  few  weeks  she  was  to  owe 
her  lil'e  to  that  very  abstruse  work,  and  what  Hilda  luul  read 

in  it. 

That  afternoon,  as  we  watched  the  Hying  fish  from  the 
ship's  .side,  Hilda  saiil  to  me  abruptly,  "  My  chaperon  is  an 
extremely  nervous  woman." 

"  Nervous  al)out  what  ?  " 

"  About  disea.se,  chielly.  »She  has  the  temperament  that 
dreads  infection  —  and  therefore  catches  it," 

"  Why  do  you  think  so?  " 

"  Have  n't  you  noticed  that  she  often  doubles  her  thumb 
under  her  fingers  —  folds  her  fist  across  it  — .so  —  especially 
vhen  anybody  talks  about  anything  alarming  ?  If  the  con- 
versation happens  to  turn  on  jungle  fever,  or  any  subject  like 
that,  down  goes  her  thumb  in.stantly,  and  she  clasps  her  fi.st 
over  it  with  a  convulsive  .squeeze.  At  the  .same  time,  too, 
her  face  twitches.  I  know  what  that  trick  means.  »She  's 
horril)ly  afraid  of  tropical  diseases,  though  she  never  says 
so." 

"  And  you  attach  importance  to  her  fear  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  I  count  upon  it  as  probal)ly  our  chief  means 
of  catching  and  fixing  her." 

"  As  how?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  quizzed  me.  "  Wait  and  .see. 
You  are  a  doctor  ;  I,  a  trained  nurse.  Before  twenty-four 
hours,  I  foresee  she  will  ask  us.  She  is  sure  to  ask  us,  now 
she  has  learned  that  you  are  Lady  Tepping's  nephew,  and 
that  I  am  acquainted  with  several  of  the  Best  People." 

That  evening,  about  ten  o'clock,  Sir  Ivor  strolled  up  to 


\  I 


1;  , 


Jir 


286 


Hilda  Wade 


il 


1  .j>i 


(M 


Ml- 


.;;'r 


»!' 


iiic  ill  the  siiiokinn  room  willi  affected  unconcern  He  laid 
his  liaiid  on  my  arm  and  tlrcw  mc  aside  niysleriously.  The 
ship's  doctor  \va:i  there,  playiny;  a  (juict  j^ame  of  poker  with 
a  few  of  the  passengers.     "  I  hej;  yonr  pardon,  Dr.  Cumher- 


V:. 


I    FORKSKK    SHE    WILL   ASK    US. 


ledge,"  he  began,  in  an  undertone,  "  could  you  come  out- 
side with  me  a  minute  ?  Lady  Meadowcroft  has  sent  me  up 
to  yo'u  with  a  message." 

I  followed  him  on  to  the  open  deck.     "  It  is  quite  impos- 
sible, my  dear  sir. ' '  I  said,  shaking  my  head  austerely,  for  I 


!' 


I'hc  Latly  wlio  was  very  reclusive    2S7 

(liviucil  hiHcrraiul.  "  I  can't  jjoniul  sec  I,aily  Mcailowcroft. 
Mcilical  c"ti(iuettc,  yon  '  uuw;  the  conntatit  and  salutary  rule 
ofllie  profession  !  " 

"  Wliy  not  ?  "  lie  asked,  astonished. 

•'  The  ship  oarrie.s  a  snr^eoii,"  I  replied,  in  niy  most  pre- 
cise tone.     "  He  is  a  dnly  tinalilkd  K»-'nlltinan,  very  able  in 
his  pn)tession,  and  he  on);lu  to  inspire  yonr  wile  with  eoiili 
(lence.     I  fe^anl  this  vessel  as  Dr.  Hoyell's  practice,  and  all 
on  hoard  it  as  virtually  his  patients." 

Sir  Ivor's  face  fell.  "  iUit  i/idy  Meadowcioft  is  not  at  all 
well,"  he  an.SNVered,  looking  piteons  ;  "  and  —she  can't  eii- 
dnre  the  .ship's  doctor.  Snch  a  cotnnion  mm,  yon  know  ! 
I  lis  load  voice  distnrhs  her.  Von  umsl  have  noticed  that 
my  wife  is  a  lady  of  exceptionally  delicate  nervons  organisa- 
tion." He  hesitated,  beamed  on  me,  and  phiyi^l  his  trnmp 
card.     "  She  dislikes  heii.^  attended  by  owt  bnt  a.i,'V7//'A'Wr/^/." 

"  If  a  gentleman  is  also  a  medical  man,"  I  answered,  "  his 
sense  of  duty  towards  his  brother  practitioners  would,  of 
course,  prevent  him  from  int-rferiny;  in  their  proper  sphere, 
or  putting  upon  them  the  unmerited  slight  of  letting  them 
see  him  preferred  before  them." 

"  Then  you  po.sitively  refu.se  ?  "  he  asked,  wistfully,  draw- 
ing back.  I  could  see  he  stood  in  a  certain  dread  of  that 
imperious  little  woman. 

I  conceded  a  point.  "  I  will  go  down  in  twenty  minutes," 
I  admitted,  looking  grave, — "  not  just  now,  lest  I  annoy  my 
colleague, — and  I  will  glance  at  Lady  Meadowcroft  in  an  un- 
professional way.  If  I  think  her  case  demands  treatment,  I 
will  tell  Dr.  Boyell."  And  I  returned  to  the  smoking-room 
and  took  up  a  novel. 

Twenty  minutes  later  I  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  lady'a 


1 


ii 


Hi 


I 


!i 


:i 


i,  I,. 


/^i 


2S.S 


Hilda  Wacic 


1  i 


'     il 


privaio  cal)in,  with  my  best  holsidc  iiiamter  in  lutl  pli y.  As 
I  Huspcctcil,  slu!  wan  iicrvouH— nothing  more— my  mere  smile 
rea.HHiired  licr.  I  ohHcrved  that  Hhc  held  her  thumb  fast, 
d(M»l>k(l  Milder  in  her  fist,  all  tlic  time  I  wan  <|m'sli<>idi»>;  lur, 
OH  Hilda  hid  said;  and  I  also  noticed  that  the  finders  i-losei  I 
ahont  it  convnlsively  at  first,  hut  gradnally  relaxed  as  my 
voice  restored  confidence.  She  thanked  nie  profusely,  and 
was  really  j;ratefnl. 

On  deck  next  day  she  was  very  connnnnicative.  They 
were  K<»iiiK  t'>  niake  the  regular  tour  first,  she  said,  hut  were 
to  go  on  to  the  Tihelaii  frontier  at  the  eiul,  whe»'e  Sir  Ivor 
harl  a  contract  to  construct  a  railway,  in  a  very  wild  region. 
Timers?  Natives?  Oh,  she  diil  n't  mind  either  of  ////w  ,■ 
hut  she  was  told  that  that  district  —  what  did  they  c;dl  it  i* 
the  Terai,  or  soinelhinj;  -wa-i  terribly  unwholesome.  I'ever 
was  what-you-m:iy-c:ill-it  tliere — yes,  "  endemic" — that  was 
the  word  ;  "  oh,  thank  you.  Dr.  Cumberledyfe."  vShe  hated 
the  very  name  offerer.  "  Now  you,  Miss  Wade,  I  suppose," 
with  an  awestruck  smile,  "  are  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  it  ?  " 

Hilda  looked  up  at  her  calmly.  "  Not  in  the  least,"  .she 
answered.     "  I  have  nursed  hundreds  of  cases." 

"  Oh,  my,  how  dreadful  !     And  never  caught  it  ?  " 

"  Never.     I  am  not  afraid,  you  .see." 

*'  I  wi.sh  /was  n't!  Hundreds  of  cases!  It  makesone  ill 
to  think  of  it  !     .     .     .     And  all  successfully  ?  " 

"  Almost  all  of  them." 

"  You  don't  tell  your  patients  stories  when  they  're  ill 
about  your  other  ca.ses  who  died,  do  you  ?  "  Lady  Meadow- 
croft  went  on,  with  a  (juick  little  shudder. 

Hilda's  face  by  this  time  was  genuinely  sympathetic. 
"  Oh,  never  !  "  .she  answered,  with  truth.     "  That  would  bo 


r  T 


i 


I'Ik'  L.uly  who  was  viiy  lixilii^i\c    :Sc) 

ver>'  htn\  mirHitiK !  ( )iic'M  object  in  trcatitip;  n  cane  in  to  iitnke 
one.H  l);itlviit  well  ;  so  otic  naturally  avoids  at«y  st>rt  ol'siih- 
jci'l  that  ini^lit  Ik-  (listri'SHJii  ^  or  alaniiiiij;." 

'   Von  really  mean  it  ?  "     Iler  face  was  ))kM«linK. 

"  Why,  of  conrsi".  I  try  tiomake  my  paluiits  my  iVIends  ; 
I  liilk  to  them  ehetrrnlly;  I  .muise  them  ami  «lislraet  them  ; 
I  >;et  them  away,  as  far  as  I  au»,  iVom  IhemselveH  uml  their 
symptoms." 

"  Oil,  what  a  lovely  person  tt)  have  ahout  oiu  wluii  one  's 
ill!"  the  lan^,Mti(l  lady  exi'laimeil,  ccslatieally.  "  1  should 
like  to  send  for  yon  if  I  wanted  nnrsin^  !  Mnt  there  it  's 
ahvavH  so,  of  eonrsi-,  with  a  real  lady  ;  eonnnt)n  nnrseH 
friv'htcn  one  so.  I  wish  I  eonld  always  have  a  laily  to  nnrse 
me!" 

*'  A  person  who  sympathises-  that  is  the  really  important 
tiling,"  Hilda  answered,  in  her  (pnel  voice.  "Oiu-  nuist 
fnid  out  first  one's  patient's  temperament.  Von  arc  lurvons, 
I  can  see."  She  laid  one  hand  on  her  m-w  friend's  arm. 
"  Von  need  to  be  kept  amused  and  eni;aj;ed  when  you  are 
ill  ;  what  I7>/^  recpiire  most  is  -  -  insii;!^      and  sympathy." 

The  little  fist  doubled  up  nKain  ;  the  vacant  face  j.;rew 
positively  .sweet.  "  That 's  just  it !  N'ou  have  hit  it!  How 
clever  you  are  !  I  want  all  that.  I  suppo.se,  .Mi.ss  Wade, 
you  never  go  out  for  private  nursing  ?  " 

"  Never,"  Hilda  an.swered.  "  Von  see,  Lady  Meadow- 
croft,  I  don't  nurse  for  a  livelihood.  I  have  means  of  my 
own  ;  I  took  up  this  work  as  an  occupation  and  a  sphere  in 
life.     I  have  n't  done  anything  yet  but  hos]>ital  nursing." 

Lady  Meadowcroft  drew  a  slight  sigh.  "  What  a  pity  !  " 
she  nuirmured,  slowly.  "  It  docs  seem  hard  that  your 
sympathies  should  all  be  thrown  away,  so  to  speak,  on  a 


% 


II 


Mi' 

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I 


I'll. 

1 


290 


Hilda  Wade 


» 


^". 

» 

TL.  ' 

1. 

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1 1 


horrid  lot  of  wretched  poor  people,  instead  of  beiiiji;  spent 
on  your  own  equals  —  who  would  so  greatly  appreciate 
tliem." 

"  I  think  I  can  venture  to  say  the  poor  appreciate  them, 
too,"  Hilda  answered,  bridling  up  a  little  —  for  there  was 
nothing  she  hated  so  much  as  class-prejudices.  "  Besides, 
they  need  sympathy  more  ;  they  have  fewer  comforts.  I 
should  not  care  to  give  up  attendiifg  my  poor  people  for  the 
sake  of  the  idle  rich." 

The  set  phraseology  of  the  country  rectory  recurred  to 
Lady  Meadowcroft  —  "  our  poorer  brethren,"  and  so  forth. 
"  Oh,  of  course,"  she  answered,  with  the  mechanical  accpii- 
escence  such  women  always  give  to  moral  platitudes.  "  One 
nuist  do  one's  best  for  the  poor,  I  know — for  conscience'  sake 
and  all  that  ;  it  's  our  duty,  and  we  all  try  hard  to  do  it. 
But  they  're  so  terribly  ungrateful  !  Don't  you  think  so? 
Do  you  know.  Miss  Wade,  in  my  Hither's  parish " 

Hilda  cut  her  short  with  a  sunny  smile — half  contemptuous 
toleration,  half  genuine  pity.  "  We  are  all  ungrateful," 
she  said  ;  **  but  the  poor,  I  think,  the  least  so.  I  'm  sure 
the  gratitude  I  've  often  had  from  my  poor  women  at  vSt. 
Nathaniel's  has  made  me  vSometimes  feel  really  ashamed  of 
myself.  I  had  done  so  little  —  and  they  thanked  me  so 
much  for  it." 

'"  Which  only  shows,"  Lady  Meadowcroft  broke  in,  "  that 
one  ought  always  to  have  a  /ady  to  nurse  one." 

"  Qt  marche  !  "  Hilda  said  to  me,  with  a  quiet  smile,  a  few 
minutes  after,  when  her  ladyship  had  disappeared  in  her 
fluffy  robe  down  the  companion-ladder. 

"  Yes,  ga  marche''  I  answered.  '*  In  an  hour  or  two  you 
will  have  succeeded  in  landing  j-our  chaperon.     And  what 


Hi 


l!l 


The  Lady  wlio  was  very  Mxclusi\c    2(.)\ 


is  most  anuisi!i.i;,  landed  he*,  too,  Hilda,  just  hy  i)cin^  your- 
self -  letting  her  see  frankly  the  actual  truth  of  what  you 
think  and  feel  about  her  and  about  everyone  !  " 

"  I  could  not  do  otherwise,"  Hilda  answered,  ^rowin^ 
j;rave.  "  I  must  be  myself,  or  die  for  it.  My  method  of 
aiiKli"K  consists  in  showin*;  myself  just  as  I  am.  Vou  c:dl 
nic  an  actress,  but  I  am  not  really  one;  I  am  only  a  woman 
who  can  use  her  per.sonality  for  her  own  purposes.  If  I  };o 
with  Lady  Meadowcroft,  it  will  be  a  mutual  advanta};e.  I 
shall  really  sympathise  with  her  for  I  can  .see  the  poor 
thini;  is  devoured  with  nervousness." 

"  Hut  do  you  think  you  will  be  able  to  stand  her?"  I 
asked. 

"  Oh,  dear,  yes.  vShe  's  not  a  bad  little  thinj;,  an  fond, 
when  you  set  to  know  her.  It  is  society  that  has  spoilt  her. 
vSiie  would  have  made  a  nice,  helpful,  motherly  body  if 
she  'd  married  the  curate." 

As  we  neared  Bombay,  conver.sation  grew  gradually  more 
and  more  Indian  ;  it  always  does  under  similar  circum- 
.stances.  A  .sea  voyage  is  half  retrospect,  half  prospect  ;  it 
has  no  pensonal  identity.  You  leave  Liverpool  for  New 
York  at  the  Eiigli.sh  standpoint,  and  are  full  of  what  you 
did  in  London  or  Manchester  ;  half-way  over,  you  begin  to 
discuss  American  custom-houses  and  New  York  hotels  ;  by 
the  time  you  reach  Sandy  Hook,  the  talk  is  all  of  quick 
trains  west  and  the  .shortest  route  from  Philadelphia  to  New 
Orleans.  You  grow  by  slow  stages  into  the  new  attitude  ; 
at  Malta  you  are  still  regretting  Europe  ;  after  Aden,  your 
mind  dwells  most  on  the  hire  of  punkah-wallahs  and  the 
proverbial  toughness  of  the  dak-bungalow  chicken. 

"How  's  the  plague  at  Bombay  now?"  an  inquisitive 


292 


Hilda  Wade 


I'i  ,'  ■. 


■j.i,. 


passenger  imiuired  of  tlie  Captain  at  dinner  our  last  niglit 
out.     •'  Oettinj;  any  better  >  " 

Lady  Meadowcroft's  tluunb  dived  l)et\veen  her  fingers 
again.  "  What  !  is  tliere  plague  in  Honibay  ?  "  she  asked, 
innocently,  in  her  nervous  fashion. 

"  Plngue  in  Honibay  !  "  the  Captain  burst  out,  his  burly 
voice  resounding  down  the  saloon.  "  Why,  bless  your  soul, 
ma'am,  where  else  would  you  expect  it  ?  Plague  in  Rom- 
bay!  It 's  been  there  these  five  years.  Better  ?  Not  quite. 
Going  ahead  like  mad.     They  're  dying  by  thousands." 

"  A  microl)e,  I  believe.  Dr.  Boyell,"  the  inquisitive  pas- 
senger observed  deferentially,  with  due  respect  for  medical 
science. 

"  Yes,"  the  ship's  doctor  answered,  helping  himself  to  an 
olive.  "  Forty  million  microbes  to  each  square  inch  of  the 
Bombay  atmosphere." 

**  And  we  are  going  to  Bombay  !  "  Lady  Meadowcroft  ex- 
claimed, aghast. 

"  You  must  have  known  there  was  plague  there,  my 
dear,"  Sir  Ivor  put  in,  soothingly,  with  a  deprecating 
glance.  "It  's  been  in  all  the  papers.  But  only  the 
natives  get  it." 

The  thumb  uncovered  itself  a  little.  "Oh,  only  the 
natives  !  "  Lady  Meadowcroft  echoed,  relieved  ;  as  if  a  few 
thousand  Hindus  more  or  less  would  hardly  be  missed  among 
the  blessings  of  British  rule  in  India.  "  You  know,  Ivor,  I 
never  read  those  dreadpU  things  in  the  papers,  /read  the  So- 
ciety news,  and  Our  Social  Diary,  and  columns  that  are  headed 
*  Mainly  About  People.'  I  don't  care  for  anything  but  the 
Morning  Post  and  the  World  and  Truth.  I  hate  horrors. 
.     .     .     But  it  's  a  blessing  to  think  it  's  only  the  natives." 


The  Lady  who  was  very  li^Nchisixc      293 

"  Plenty  of  ICnropeatis,  too,  bless  your  I'cart,"  the  Cn',Uain 
thiiiulerecl  out  uufeelin^ly.  "  Why,  last  time  I  was  iu  port, 
a  nurse  died  at  the  hospital.' 

"  Oh,  only  a  nurse "   Lady   Meadowcroft  hesan,  and 


"MY   WIFK    HAS    DEMVKKF.I)    HK.K    ULTIMATUM. 

then  coloured  up  deeply,  with  a  side  glance  at  Hilda. 

"  And  lots  besides  nurses,"  the  Captain  continued,  posi- 
ti\ely  delighted  at  the  terror  he  was  inspiring.  "  Pucka 
luiglishmen  and  Englishwomen.  Bad  business  this  plague. 
Dr.  Cumberledge!  Catches  particularly  those  who  are  most 
afraid  of  it." 


'It 


I 


i.i' 


ii  !■; 


294 


Hilda  Wade 


'    ir; 


m- 


H  ¥ 


■i.  :  ! 


Mi;:: 


t 

1 

LL 

dliliiilii 

"  But  it  's  only  in  Bfiiibay  ?  '  Lady  Meadowcroft  cried, 
clutching  at  the  last  straw.  I  could  see  she  was  registering 
a  mental  determination  to  go  straight  up-country  the  moment 
she  landed. 

"  Not  a  hit  of  it  !  "  the  Captain  answered,  with  provoking 
cheerfulness.  "  Rampaging  about  like  a  roaring  lion  all 
over  India  !  " 

Lady  Meadowcroft' s  thumb  must  have  suffered  severely. 
The  nails  dug  into  it  as  if  it  were  someone  else's. 

H^lf  an  hour  later,  as  we  were  on  deck  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening,  the  thing  was  settled.  "  My  wife,"  Sir  Ivor  said, 
coming  up  to  us  with  a  serious  face,  "  has  delivered  her 
ultimatum.  Positively  her  ultimatum.  I  've  had  a  mort  o' 
trouble  with  her,  and  now  she  's  settled.  JUther,  she  goes 
back  from  Bombay  by  the  return  steamer  ;  or  chc — you  and 
Miss  Wade  must  name  your  own  terms  to  accomi)any  us  on 
our  tour,  in  case  of  emergencies."  He  glanced  wistfully  at 
Hilda.     "  Do  you  think  you  can  help  us  ?  " 

Hilda  made  no  hypocritical  pretence  of  hanging  back. 
Her  nature  was  transparent.  "  If  you  wish  it,  yes,"  she 
answered,  shaking  hands  upon  the  bargain.  '*  I  only  want  to 
go  about  and  see  India  ;  I  can  see  it  quite  as  well  with  Lady 
Meadowcroft  as  without  her  —  and  even  better.  It  is  un- 
pleasant for  a  woman  to  travel  unattached,  I  require  a 
chaperon,  and  am  glad  to  find  one.  I  will  join  your  party, 
paying  my  own  hotel  and  travelling  expenses,  and  con- 
sidering myself  as  engaged  in  case  your  wife  .should  need 
my  services.  For  that,  you  can  pay  me,  if  yoa  like,  some 
nominal  retaining  fee  —  five  pounds  or  anything,  The 
money  is  immaterial  to  me.  I  like  to  be  useful,  and  I 
sympathise  with  nerves  ;  but  it  may  make  your  wife  feel  she 


il 


The  Lady  who  v/as  very  li^xchisivc    2(^5 

is  really  keeping  a  hold  over  iul"  if  we  put  the  arrangement 
on  a  business  basis.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  whatever  sum  she 
chooses  to  pay,  I  shall  hand  it  over  at  once  to  the  Bombay 
Plague  Hospital." 


LADY    MEADOWCROFT    RUSHED    ON    DECK. 


Sir  Ivor  looked  relieved.  "  Thank  you  ever  so  much  ! '' 
he  said,  wringing  her  hand  warmly.  "  I  thowtyou  were  a 
brick,  and  now  I  know  it.  My  wife  says  your  face  inspires 
confidence,  and  your  voice  sympathy.  She  inust  have  you 
with  her.     And  you,  Dr.  Cumberledge  ?  " 


il 


'i.i 


If 


m\ 


1' 

1 

i 

U  / 

'  ■. 

t', . 

r  > 


,11111 


296 


Hilda  Wade 


"  I  follow  Miss  V^idc's  load,"  I  answered,  in  my  most 
solemn  tone,  with  an  impressive  how.  "  I,  too,  am  travel- 
ling for  itistrnction  and  amusement  only  ;  and  if  it  wotdd 
give  Lady  Meadowcroft  a  greater  sense  of  security  to  have 
a  duly  (qualified  practitioner  in  her  suite,  I  sliall  l)e 
glad  on  the  same  terms  to  swell  your  party.  I  will  pay  my 
own  way  ;  and  I  will  allow  you  to  name  aii\  nominal  sum 
you  please  for  >our  claim  on  my  medical  attendance,  if  ne- 
cessary. I  hope  and  believe,  however,  that  our  presence  will 
so  far  reassure  our  prospective  patient  as  to  make  our  post 
in  both  cases  a  sinecure." 

Three  mituites  later  Lady  Meadowcroft  rushed  on  deck 
and  flung  her  arms  impulsively  round  Hilda.  "  Vou  dear, 
good  girl  !  "  she  cried  ;  **  how  .sweet  and  kind  of  you  !  I 
really  cou/c/  ;/7  have  landed  if  you  had  n't  promised  to  come 
with  us.  And  Dr.  Cumberledge,  too  !  So  nice  and  friendly 
of  you  both.  But  there,  it  is  so  much  plea.santer  to  deal  with 
ladies  and  gentlemen  !  " 

So  Hilda  won  Ler  point  ;  and  what  was  best,  won  it  fairly. 


I  ■' 


!  >  I 


! 


CIIAPTlvR   X 


TiiJv  ici'isonr:  oi-'  tiuc  (Hiidi-:  who  knicw  Tine  cointrv 


WIC  toured  all  round  India  withtlic  Meadowcrolts  ;  aiul 
really  the  lady  who  was  "  so  very  exclusive  "  lurucd 
out  not  a  bad  little  thiuj;,  when  once  one  had  suc- 
ceeded in  breaking  through  the  ring-fence  with  which  she 
surrounded  herself.  vShe  had  an  endless,  (lueiichlcss  rest- 
lessness, it  is  true  ;  her  eyes  wandered  aimlessly  ;  she  never 
was  happy  for  two  minutes  together,  unless  she  was  snr- 
rouiided  by  friends,  and  was  seeing  something.  What  she 
saw  did  not  interest  her  much  ;  certainly  her  tastes  were  on 
the  level  with  those  of  a  very  young  child.  An  odd-lookitig 
house,  a  queerly  dressed  man,  a  tree  cut  into  shape  to  look 
like  a  peacock,  delighted  her  far  more  than  the  most  glorious 
view  of  the  quaintest  old  temple.  Still,  she  nuist  be  seeing. 
She  could  no  more  sit  still  than  a  fidgety  child  or  a  monkey 
at  the  Zoo.  To  be  up  and  doing  was  her  nature  —  doing 
nothing,  to  be  sure  ;  but  still,  doing  it  strenuously. 

So  we  went  the  regulation  round  of  Delhi  and  Agra,  the 
Taj  Mahal,  and  the  Ghats  at  Benares,  at  railroad  speed,  ful- 
filling the  whole  duty  of  the  modern  globe-trotter.  Lady 
Meadowcroft  looked  at  everything  —  for  ten  minutes  at  a 

297 


T     I 


5 


1 


'()S 


Hilda  Wade 


Li  . 


\mn  f 


r  jl 

t 

rk 

1 

ii\ 

j-  ■'  1 

11 

|ii 

li  I 

1 

if 

I 

stretch  ;  then  she  wanted  to  ))e  ofT,  to  visit  the  next  thinj; 
set  down  for  her  in  her  gnide-hook.  As  we  left  each  town 
slie  nmrnuired  ineclianically :  "  Well,  we  've  seen  ///<//,  thank 
Heaven  !  "  and  straightway  ^ent  on,  with  e(|ual  eagL-riK'Ss, 

and  etjnal  bore- 
dom, to  see  the 
one  after  it. 

The  oidy  tiling 
that  did  fio/  bore 
her,  indeed,  was 
Hilda's  bright 
talk. 

"Oh,  Miss 
W  a  d  e  ,  "  s  h  e 
vvonld  say,  clasp- 
ing her  h  a  n  d  s, 
and  looking  np 
into  Hilda's  eyes 
with  her  own 
empty  bine  ones, 
'  '  y  o  u  (1  re  so 
fnnny  !  ,So  orig- 
inal, don't  you 
know!  You 
never  talk  or 
I  can't  imagine  how 
If  /  were  to  try  all 


YOU   ARE   so   FUNNY  !  " 


think  of  anything  like  other  people 

such   ideas  come   up  in  your  mind 

day,  I  'm  sure  I  should  never  hit  upon  them  !  "     Which 

was  so  perfectly  true  as  to  be  a  trifle  obvious. 

Sir  Ivor,  not  being  interested  in  temples,  but  in  steel  rails, 
had  gone  on  at  once  to  his  concession,  or  contract,  or 


The  (iuiclu  who  Kiuu  the  ("ouiUry      299 


! 


whatever  else  it  was,  oji  tlie  north-east  frontier,  leaving; 
liis  wife  to  follf)\v  ami  rejoin  liini  in  the  Himalayas  as  so«)n 
as  she  had  exhansled  the  sights  of  India.  So,  after  a  feu- 
dusty  weeks  of  wear  atid  tear  on  the  Indian  railways,  we 
met  him  once  more  in  the  reoesses  of  Nepaid,  where  lu- 
was  l)usy  construct'nj;  a  li^lit  local  line  for  the  rei^nin^ 
Maharajah. 

If  Lady  Meadowcr<jft  had  been  bored  at  Allahabad  and 
Ajmere,  she  was  innnensely  more  l)ored  in  a  rouj;h  bunga- 
low amon>^  the  trackless  depths  of  the  Himalayan  valleys. 
Tv)  anybody  with  eyes  in  his  head,  indeed,  Toloo,  where  »Sir 
Ivor  had  pitched  his  head(iuarters,  was  lovely  enouj;h  to 
keep  one  interested  for  a  twelvemonth.  Snow-clad  needles 
of  rock  hennued  it  in  on  either  side  ;  ^reat  deodars  rose  like 
hu;4e  tapers  on  the  hill.sides  ;  the  plants  and  (lowers  were  a 
joy  to  look  at.  But  Lady  Meadowcroft  diil  not  care  for 
Hovvers  which  one  could  not  wear  in  one's  hair  ;  and  what 
was  the  good  of  dre.ssing  here,  with  no  one  but  Ivor  and 
Dr.  Cundierledge  to  .see  one?  vShe  yawned  till  she  was 
tired;  then  she  began  to  grow  peevish. 

"  Why  Ivor  should  want  to  build  a  railway  at  all  in  this 
stupid,  silly  place,"  she  said,  as  we  sat  in  the  veranda  in  the 
cool  of  evening,  "  I  'm  .sure  /can't  imagine.  We  w//.s/ go 
somewhere.  This  is  nmddening,  maddening  !  Miss  Wade 
—  Dr.  Cumberledge  —  I  count  upon  you  to  discover  .sw;/^- 
////;/(.-  for  me  to  do.  If  I  vegetate  like  this,  .seeing  nothing 
all  day  long  but  those  eternal  hills  " — she  clenched  her  little 
fist  —  "  I  shall  go  ;;mdf  with  ennui." 

Hilda  had  a  happy  thought.  "  I  have  a  fancy  to  see 
.some  of  these  Buddhist  monasteries,"  she  .said,  .smiling  as 
one  smiles  at  a  tiresome  child  whom  one  likes  in  spite  of 


yyo 


Hilda  Wade 


li  I 


:'i. 


i'j 


u 


V-f 


everything.  "  Yon  retiU'inher,  T  was  reading:  that  hook  of 
Mr.  vSiiiipsou's  on  the  steamer  coining;  out  —a  cnrious  hook 
ahont  the  IhuUlhi.t  Praying  W'lieels  ;  and  it  made  nie  want 
to  see  one  of  their  temples  innnensely.  What  (U)  you  say  to 
eampiii);  ont  ?  .\  few  weeks  in  the  hills  ^  It  would  be  an 
ailventiire,  at  any  rate." 

"Camping   ont?"    I<ady    Meatlowcroft  exclaimed,    hall 
roused  from  her  languor  hy  the  idea  of  a  chanj;e.     "  Oh,  do 
you   think   that  would   he   fnn  ?     Should   we  sleep  on   the 
ground  ?     Hut,  would  n't  it  he  dreadfully,  horribly  uncom- 
fortable ?  " 

"  Not  half  so  uncomfortable  as  you  Ml  find  yourself  here 
at  Tolooin  a  few  days,  Mnunie,"  her  husband  put  in,  j^rindy. 
"  The  rains  will  .soon  be  on,  lass  ;  and  when  the  rains  are 
on,  by  all  accounts,  they  're  precious  heavy  hereabouts  — 
rare  fine  rains,  so  that  a  man  's  half-flooded  out  of  his  bed  o' 
nij;hts    -which  won't  suit  r<^//,  my  lady." 

The  poor  little  woman  clasped  her  twitchinj;  hands  in 
feeble  a^ony.  "  Oh,  Ivor,  how  dreadful  !  Is  it  what  they 
call  the  mongoose,  or  monsoon,  or  somelhiii.i;  ?  Ihit  if 
they  're  so  bad  here,  surely  they  '11  be  wor.se  in  the  hills  — 
and  camping  out,  too  —  won't  they  ?  " 

"  Not  if  you  go  the  right  way  to  work.  Ah'm  told  it 
never  rains  t'  other  side  o'  the  hills.  The  mountains  stop 
the  clouds,  and  once  you  're  over,  you  're  safe  enough. 
Only,  you  nuist  take  care  to  keep  well  in  the  Maharajah's 
territory.  Cross  the  frontier  t'  other  side  into  Tibet,  an' 
they  '11  skni  thee  alive  as  soon  as  look  at  thee.  They  don't 
like  strangers  in  Tibet  ;  prejudiced  against  them,  .somehow  ; 
they  pretty  well  skinned  that  young  chap  Landor  who  tried 
to  go  there  a  year  ago. ' ' 


The  (iiiiilc  who  Knew  the  Country     301 


buok  of 
UH  hook 
lie  waul 
,1  say  tu 

(I  be  ail 

il,    hall 
Oil,  do 

oil    till- 

iiiicoin 

elf  liert* 

grimly, 
lins  arc 

)()lltS  — 

s  hud  o' 

itids  in 

at  they 

Hilt   if 

lills- 

told  it 
lis  stop 
nough. 

rajah's 
)et,  an' 
don't 

ehovv  ; 

,0  tried 


"  Hut,  Ivor,  I  don't  wuut  to  l)c  skinned  alive  !  1  in  nut 
ail  eel,  please  !  " 

"  That  's  all  right,  lass.  Leave  that  to  ine.  I  cm  ^et 
thee  a  Kuitle,  a  man  that  's  very  well  aopiainted  wilh  the 
iiioiintaiiis.  I  was  talking  to  a  scieiilitic  explorer  here 
t'  other  day,  and  he  knows  of  a  good  guide  who  can  take 
you  anywhere.  He  '11  get  you  the  chance  of  seeing  the 
inside  of  a  Hiiddhist  monastery,  if  you  like,  Mi.ss  Wade, 
lie  's  hand  in  glove  with  all  the  religion  they  've  got  in  this 
j)art  o'  the  country.  They  've  got  iioaii  iniicli,  hut  at  what 
there  is,  he  's  a  rare  devout  one." 

We  di.scussed  the  matter  fully  for  two  or  three  days  hefore 
we  made  up  our  minds.  I,ady  Mcadowcroft  was  undeii<led 
between  her  hatred  of  dulness  and  her  haunting  fear  that 
scorpions  and  snakes  would  intrude  upon  our  tents  and  heds 
while  we  were  camping.  In  the  end,  however,  the  desire 
for  change  carried  the  day.  vShe  decided  to  doelge  the  rainy 
.season  by  getting  hehind  the  Himalayan  passes,  in  the  dry 
region  to  the  north  of  the  great  range,  where  rain  .seldom 
falls,  the  country  ))eiiig  watered  only  hy  the  melting  of  the 
.snows  on  the  high  summits. 

This  decision  delighted  Hilda,  who,  since  she  came  to 
India,  had  fallen  a  prey  to  the  fashionahle  vice  of  amateur 
photography.  She  took  to  it  enthusiastically.  She  had 
i)oiight  herself  a  first-rate  camera  of  the  latest  .scientific 
pattern  at  Bombay,  and  ever  vSiiice  had  spent  all  her  time  and 
.spoiled  her  pretty  hands  in  '*  developii'g."  She  was  also 
seized  with  a  craze  for  Buddhi.sm.  The  objects  that  every- 
where particularly  attracted  her  were  the  old  Buddhist 
temples  and  tombs  and  sculptures  with  which  India  is 
studded.    Of  these  she  had  taken  some  hundreds  of  views, 


H' 


I  ' 


,*:  \y 


fli 


30J 


IliMa  Wa.lo 


«  » 


J  . 


is  III' 


<  ! 


nil  printed  by  herself  with  the  greatest  care  and  precision, 
Hut  in  India,  alter  all,  Hnddhisni  in  a  dead  creed.  Its  n)(»nn- 
nicnts  alotie  remain  ;  she  was  anxious  to  see  the  Ihuldhi.i 
religion  in  its  living  state  ;  and  that  she  could  oidy  do  in 

the»c  remote  outlyiuK  Himalayan 
valleys. 

Our  outfit,  therefore,  included  :i 
dark  tent  for  Hilda's  pholoKrapliic 
app.iratus  ;  a  couple  of  roomy  tents 
to  live  and  sleep  in;  asmallcook 
in^  stove  ;  a  cook  to  look  after  il  ; 
half  a(l«)zen  bearers;  and  tlu* 
hi^ldy  rcconnnended  i^n'u\c  who 
ktiew  his  way  about  the  country. 
In  three  days  we  were  ready,  to  Sir 
Ivor's  Kreat  delight.  He  was  fond 
of  his  pretty  wife,  and  proud  ol 
her,  I  believe  ;  but  when  once  she 
was  away  from  tile  whirl  and  l)uslle 
of  the  London  that  .she  loved,  ii 
was  a  relief  to  him,  I  fancy,  to 
pursue  his  work  alone,  unhamp- 
ered ijy  her  restless  and  (juerulous 
childishness. 

On  the  morning  when  we  were  to  make  our  start,  the  guide 
who  was  "  well  acquainted  with  the  mountains  "  turned  up 
—  as  villainousdooking  a  person  as  I  have  ever  set  eyes  on. 
He  was  sullen  and  furtive.  I  judged  him  at  sight  to  be  half 
Hindu,  half  Tibetan.  He  had  a  dark  complexion,  between 
brown  and  tawny;  narrow  slant  eyes,  very  small  and  beady- 
black,  with  a  cunning  leer  in  their  oblique  corners ;  a  flat 


niE   d'  IDK. 


The  (liiiilc  who  Knew  the  Ci)untry     303 


i  inoiiu- 
uddliisl 
y  do  ill 
taluyan 

Itulc'l  :i 
j;r.'ii)lii(. 
iiy  Icnl!- 
\ll  cook 
lifter  il  , 
1(1    the 
le    \vlii> 
.'oiujlry. 
y,  U)  v^'ir 
v:is  fond 
iroud  of 
nice  .shu 

n)UsUe 
oveil,  it 
.ncy,  to 
mluimp- 

lerulous 

le  ^iiidc 
irned  up 
eyes  on. 

be  half 
between 
I  beady- 

;  a  flat 


iioHc  tnnch  broadfne<l  at  the  \vhi>;.H  ;  a  criul,  thick.  seiisitouM 
inoiilh,  an«l  \\\^\\  iluikbones  ;  the  whole  Hunuoiuiteil  l»y  ti 
coniprclienMivc  scowl  and  an  abundant  crop  (»f  lank  black 
hair,  tied  up  in  a  knot  at  the  im|x.'  of  the  neck  with  a  yellow 
ribbon.  His  face  wan  shifty  ;  liin  Mliort,  stout  form  looked 
wi'll  adapted  to  nioiuitain  clinibin^j,  and  also  to  wri^ulin>;. 
A  deep  scar  on  his  left  cheek  dicl  not  help  to  inspire  conlid 
cncc.  Hut  he  was  polite  and  civil  spoken.  Altoj^ether  a 
clever,  iniscrupulous,  wideawake  sold,  who  wonlil  serve 
\(»n  well  if  he  thou>;ht  he  could  make  by  it,  and  woulil  be- 
tray you  at  a  pinch  tt)  the  highest  bii.'l»»i'. 

We  .set  out,    in   nierr>    mood,    prep.ircd   to  solw    ill  the 
abstruse  probletns  of  the    Huddhist    religion.     Our   spoilt 
child  .stood  the  camping  out  bitter  than   I  expected.     She 
was  fretfid,  of  course,  and  worried  about  tritles  ;  she  missed 
her  maid  a»id  her  accustomed  comforts  ;  but  she  minded  thf 
rouj^hin^  it  less,  on  the  whole,   than   she  had  minded  the 
boredom  of  in.iction  in  the  bunijalow  ;  and,  beiniL^  ca.st  on 
Hilda  and   myself  for  resources,   she  suddenly  evolved  an 
unexpecteil   taste   for  produrin^,   developing,   and    printing 
photographs.     We  took  do/.en.s,  as  we  went  along,  of  little 
villages  on  our  route,  woofl-built  villages  with  quaint  houses 
and  turrets  ;  and  as   Hilda  had  brought  her  collection  of 
prints  with  her,  for  comparison  of  the  Indian  and  Xepaulese 
monuments,   we  spei't  the  evenings  after  our  short  day's 
march  each  day  in  arranging  and  collating  them.     We  had 
planned  to  be  away  .six  weeks,  at  least.     In  that  time  the 
monsoon  woidd  have  burst  and  passed.     Our  guide  thought 
we  might  see  all  that  was  worth  .seeing  of  the   lUuldhist 
mona.steries,   and  Sir  Ivor  thought  we  should   have  fairly 
escaped  the  dreaded  wet  season. 


1 , 


p 


n  nr 


304 


Hilda  Wade 


m-.i 


V.At 


m 


"  What  do  you  make  of  our  guide  ?  "  I  asked  of  Hilda  on 
our  fourth  day  out.     I  began  somehow  to  distrust  iiim. 

"  Oil,  he  seems  all  right,"  Hilda  answered,  carelessly  — 
and  her  voice  reassured  me.  "  He  's  a  rogue,  of  course  ;  all 
guides  and  interpreters,  and  dragomans  and  the  like,  in 
out-of-the-way  places,  always  arc  rogues.  If  they  were 
honest  men,  they  would  share  the  ordinary  prejudices  of 
their  countrymen,  and  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
hated  stranger.  But  in  this  case  our  friend,  Ram  Das,  has 
no  end  to  gain  l)y  getting  us  into  mischief.  If  he  had,  he 
would  n't  .scru})le  for  a  st^cond  to  cut  our  throats;  but  then, 
there  are  too  many  of  us.  He  will  probably  try  to  cheat  us 
by  making  preposterous  charges  when  he  gets  us  back  to 
Toloo  ;  but  that  's  Lady  Meadowcroft's  business.  I  don't 
doubt  Sir  Ivor  will  be  more  than  a  match  for  him  there. 
I  '11  back  one  shrewd  Yorkshireman  against  any  three 
Tibetan  half-castes,  any  day." 

"  You  're  right  that  he  would  cut  our  throats  if  it  served 
his  purpose,"  I  answered.  "  He  '**  servile,  and  servility 
goes  hand  in  hand  with  treachery.  The  more  I  watch  him, 
the  more  I  see  *  scoundrel '  written  in  large  type  on  every 
bend  of  the  fellow's  oily  shoulders." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  's  a  bad  lot,  I  know.  The  cook,  who  can 
speak  a  little  English  and  a  little  Tibetan,  as  well  as  Hin- 
dustani, tells  me  Ram  Das  has  the  worst  reputation  of  any 
man  in  the  mountains.  But  he  says  he  's  a  very  good  guide 
to  the  passes,  for  all  that,  and  if  he 's  well  paid  will  do  what 
he  's  paid  for." 

Next  day  but  one  we  approached  at  last,  after  several 
short  marches,  the  neighbourhood  of  what  our  guide  assured 
us  was  a  Buddhist  monastery.     I  was  glad  when  he  told  us 


M 


I 


ilda  on 
11. 

Kssly  — 
'se  ;  all 
like,  in 
y  were 
lices  of 
/itli  the 
)as,  has 
had,  he 
it  then, 
:heat  lis 
back  to 
I  don't 

II  there, 
y   three 

t  served 
ervility 
cli  him, 

III  every 

vho  can 
as  Hin- 
1  of  any 
d  guide 
io  what 


faU 


< 


< 

X 

3 


crt 

a 


O 


l.i 


several 
assured 
told  us 


!'    ! 


f' 


306 


Hilda  Wade 


i  { 


of  it,  giving  the  place  the  name  of  a  well-known  Nepaulese 
village  ;  for,  to  say  the  truth,  I  was  beginning;  to  get  fright- 
ened. Judging  by  the  sun,  for  I  had  brought  no  compass, 
it  struck  me  that  we  seemed  to  have  been  marching  almost 
due  north  ever  since  we  left  Toloo;  and  I  fancied  such  a  line 
of  march  must  have  brought  us  by  this  time  suspiciously 
near  the  Tibetan  frontier.  Now,  I  had  no  desire  to  be 
*'  skinned  alive,"  as  Sir  Ivor  put  it.  I  did  not  wish  to  emul- 
ate St.  Bartholomew  and  others  of  the  eiirly  Christian  mar- 
tyrs ;  so  I  was  pleased  to  learn  that  we  were  really  drawing 
near  to  Kulak,  tiie  first  of  the  Nepaulese  Buddhi.st  monas- 
teries to  which  our  well-informed  guide,  himself  a  Buddhist, 
had  pronn'sed  to  introduce  us. 

We  were  tramping  up  a  beautiful  high  mountain  valley, 
closed  round  on  every  side  by  snowy  peaks.  A  brawling 
river  ran  over  a  rocky  bed  in  cataracts  down  its  midst. 
Crags  rose  abruptly  a  little  in  front  of  us.  Half-way  up  the 
slope  to  the  left,  on  a  ledge  of  rock,  rose  a  long,  low  building 
with  curious,  pyramid-like  roofs,  crowned  at  eilher  end  by  a 
sort  of  minaret,  which  resembled  more  than  anything  else  a 
huge  earthenware  oil-jar.  This  was  the  monastery  or  lama- 
sery we  had  come  so  far  to  see.  Honestly,  at  first  sight,  I 
did  not  feel  sure  it  was  worth  the  trouble. 

Our  guide  called  a  halt,  and  turned  to  us  with  a  sudden 
peremptory  air.  His  servility  had  vanished.  "  You  stoppee 
here,"  he  said,  slowly,  in  brokea  Figlish,  **  while  me-a  go 
on  to  see  whether  Lama-sahibs  ready  to  take  you.  Must 
ask  leave  from  Lama-sahibs  to  visit  village  ;  if  no  ask  leave ' ' 
—  he  drew  his  hand  across  his  throat  with  a  significant  ges- 
ture— "  Lama-sahibs  cuttee  head  off  Kulopean." 

"  Goodness  gracious!  "  Lady  Meadowcroft  cried,  clinging 


)aulese 

fright- 

mpass, 

almost 

1  a  line 

ciously 

:  to  l)u 

oeiiuil- 

n  mar- 

irawins; 

monas- 

iddhist, 

valley, 
ravvling" 
i  midst. 
,'  up  the 
)uildin,i; 
lid  by  a 
<T  else  a 
)r  lama- 
sight,  I 

sudden 

stoppee 

Ine-a  go 

Must 

leave 

ant  ges- 

clinging 


The  Guide  who  Knew  the  Country 


307 


ill 


tight  to  Hilda.     "  Miss  Wade,  this  is  dreadful  !     Where  011 
earth  have  you  brought  us  to  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  's  all  right,"  Hilda  answered,  trying  to  soothe 
her,  though  she  herself  began  to  look  a  trifle  anxious. 
"  That  's  only  Ram  Das's  graphic  way  of  putting  things." 

W^e  sat  down  on  a  bank  of  trailing  club-mo.ss  by  the  side 
of  the  rough  track,  for  it  was  nothing  more,  and  let  our 
guide  go  on  to  negotiate  with  the  Lamas.  "  Well,  to-night, 
anyhow,"  1  exclaimed,  looking  up,  "  we  shall  sleep  on  our 
own  mattresses  with  a  roof  over  our  heads.  The.se  monks 
will  find  us  quarters.     That  's  always  something." 

W^e  got  out  our  basket  and  made  tea.  In  all  moments  of 
doubt,  your  Englishwoman  makes  tea.  As  Hilda  said,  she 
will  boil  her  Etna  on  Vesuvius.  We  waited  and  drank  our 
tea  ;  we  drank  our  tea  and  waited.  A  ■  full  hour  passed 
away.  Ram  Das  never  came  back.  I  began  to  get 
frightened. 

At  last  something  stirred.  A  group  of  excited  men  in 
yellow  robes  issued  forth  from  the  monastery,  wound  their 
way  down  the  hill,  and  approached  us,  .shouting.  They 
gesticulated  as  they  came.  I  could  see  they  looked  angry. 
All  at  once  Hilda  clutched  my  arm:  "  Hubert,"  she  cried,  in 
an  undertone,  "  we  are  betrayed  !  I  see  it  all  now.  The.se 
are  Tibetans,  not  Nepaulese."  She  paused  a  second,  then 
went  on:  "I  see  it  all  —  all,  all.  Our  guide  —  Ram  Das  — 
he  had  a  reason,  after  all,  for  getting  us  into  mischief.  Sebas- 
tian must  have  tracked  us  ;  he  was  bribed  by  Sebastian  !  It 
was  he  who  recommended  Ram  Das  to  Sir  Ivor!  " 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?  "  I  asked,  low. 

' '  Because  —  look  for  yourself  ;  these  men  who  come  are 
dressed  in   yellow.      That   means  Tibetans.      Red   is  the 


I '  I  ;i 


I 


liNii 


308 


Hilda  Wade 


colour  of  the  Lamas  in  Nepaul  ;  yellow  in  Tibet  and  all  other 
Buddhist  countries.  I  read  it  in  the  book  —  VVtc  Ihiddhist 
Praying  Vlicel,  you  know.  These  are  Tibetan  fanatics,  and, 
as  Ram  bas  said,  they  will  probably  cut  our  throats  for  us." 

I  was  thankful  that  Hilda's  marvellous  memory  gave  us 
even  that  moment  for  preparation  and  facing  the  difficulty. 
I  saw  in  a  flash  that  she  was  quite  right  :  we  had  been 
inveigled  across  the  frontier.  These  moutis  were  Tibetans  — 
Buddhist  inquisitors  —  enemies.  Tibet  is  the  most  jealous 
country  on  earth  ;  it  allows  no  stranger  to  intrude  upon  its 
borders.  I  had  to  meet  the  worst.  I  stood  there,  a  single 
white  man,  armed  only  with  one  revolver,  answerable  for 
the  lives  of  tv*^o  English  ladies,  and  accompanied  by  a  cring- 
ing out-caste  Ghoorka  cook  and  half-a-dozen  doubtful  Ne- 
paulese  bearers.  To  fly  was  impossible.  We  were  fairly 
trapped.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait  and  put  a 
bold  face  on  our  utter  helplessness. 

I  turned  to  our  spoilt  child.  "  Lady  Meadowcroft, "  I 
said,  very  seriously,  **  this  is  danger  ;  real  danger.  Now, 
listen  to  me.  You  must  do  as  you  are  bid.  No  crying  ;  no 
cowardice.  Your  life  and  ours  depend  upon  it.  We  must 
none  of  us  give  way.  We  must  pretend  to  be  brave.  Show 
one  sign  of  fear,  and  these  people  will  probably  cut  our 
throats  on  the  spot  here. ' ' 

To  my  inniiense  surprise,  Lady  Meadowcroft  rose  to  the 
height  of  the  situation.  "  Oh,  as  long  as  it  is  n't  disease," 
she  answered,  resignedly  ;  "  I  'm  not  much  afraid  of  any- 
thing. I  should  mind  the  plagre  a  great  deal  more  than  I 
mind  a  set  of  howling  savages." 

By  that  time  the  meii  in  yellow  robes  had  almost  come  up 
to  us.    It  was  clear  they  were  boiling  over  with  indignatioi:  • 


i  other 
iddliist 
s,  and, 
.r  us." 
ave  us 
icuUy. 
d  been 
tans  — 
jealous 
pon  its 
I  single 
ible  for 
I  cring- 
;ful  Ne- 
e  Tairly 
d  put  a 

oft,"  I 
Now, 

ng  ;  no 

/e  must 
Show 

cut  our 

to  the 
isease," 
of  any- 
2  than  I 


^rs.r>f^^_^ 


:onie  up 
nation  • 


i 


<;f, 


h 


■:  U 


n . 


i,  » 


310 


Hilda  Wade 


but  they  still  did  everything:  decently  and  in  order.  One, 
vvlio  was  dressed  in  finer  vestments  than  the  rest  —  a  porlly 
person,  vvitli  tlie  fat,  greasy  cheeks  and  drooping  flesh  of  a 
celibate  churcli  dignitary,  whom  I  therefore  judged  to  lje  the 
abl)ot,  or  chief  Lami  of  the  moiiastery  —  gave  orders  to  his 
sul)ordinates  in  a  language  which  we  did  not  understand. 
His  men  obeyed  him.  In  a  second  they  had  closed  us  round, 
as  in  a  ring  or  cordon. 

Then  the  chief  Lama  stepped  forward,  with  an  authorita- 
tive air,  like  Pooh-Bah  in  the  play,  and  .said  something  in 
the  same  tongue  to  the  cook,  who  spoke  a  little  Til)etan.  It 
was  oi)vious  from  his  manner  that  Ram  Das  had  told  them 
all  about  us  ;  for  the  Lama  selected  the  cook  as  interpreter 
at  once,  without  taking  any  notice  of  myself,  the  ostensible 
head  of  the  petty  expedition. 

"  What  does  he  say  ?  "  I  asked,  as  soon  as  he  had  finished 
speaking. 

The  cook,  who  had  been  salaaming  all  the  time,  at  the 
risk  of  a  broken  back,  in  his  most  utterly  abject  and  grovel- 
ling attitude,  made  answer  tremulously  in  his  broken  Kng- 
li.sh  :  "  This  is  priest-sahib  of  the  temple.  He  very  angry, 
because  why  ?  Eulopean-sahib  and  mem-sahibs  come  into 
Tibet-land.  No  Eulopean,  no  Hindu,  nuist  come  into  Tibet- 
land..  Priest-sahib  say,  cut  all  Eulopean  throats.  Let 
Nepaul  man  go  back  like  him  come,  to  him  own  coun- 
try." 

I  looked  as  if  the  message  were  purely  indifferent  to  me. 
"  Tell  him,"  I  said,  smiling  —  though  at  some  little  effort  — 
*'  we  were  not  trying  to  enter  Tibet.  Our  rascally  guide 
misled  us.  We  were  going  to  Kulak,  in  the  Maharajah's 
territory.     We  will  turn  back  quietly  to  the  Maharajah's 


fe 

T'l. 

I: 


The  viiiidc  who  Knew  the  Comury 


.V  I 


to  me. 
ffort  — 
s'  guide 
rajah's 
rajah's 


hiiid  if  tlij  priest-sahil)  will  allow  us  to  ciinp  out  tor  the 
ni^ht  here." 

I  ^lauced  at  Hilda  aud  Lady  Meadowcroft.  I  luust  say 
tlieir  hearing  under  these  trying  circumstances  was  thor- 
oughly worthy  of  two  luiglish  ladies.  They  stood  ctccl, 
looking  as  though  all  Tibet  might  come,  and  they  woidd 
smile  at  it  scornfully. 

The  cook  interpreted  my  remarks  as  well  as  he  was  ai)le 
—  his  Tibetan  being  probably  about  etiual  in  ([uality  to  his 
IvMglish.  But  the  chief  Lama  made  a  reply  which  I  could 
see  for  myself  was  by  no  means  friendly. 

"  What  is  his  answer  ?  "  I  asked  the  cook,  in  my  haughti- 
est voice.     I  am  haughty  with  difiiculty. 

Our  interpreter  .salaamed  once  more,  .shaking  in  liis  shoes, 
if  he  wore  any.  "  Priest-.sahib  .say,  that  all  lies.  That  all 
dam-lies.  You  is  iMilopean  missionary,  very  bad  man  ;  you 
want  to  go  to  Lhasa.  But  no  white  sahib  nuist  go  to  Lhasa. 
Holy  city,  Lhasa  ;  for  Buddhists  only.  This  is  not  the  way 
to  Kulak  ;  this  not  Maharajah's  land.  This  place  belong-a 
Dalai-Lama,  head  of  all  Lamas  ;  have  house  at  Lha.sa.  But 
priest-sahib  know  you  Kulopean  mi.ssionary,  want  to  go 
Lliasa,  convert  Buddhists,  because  .  .  .  Ram  Das  tell 
him  so." 

"  Ram  Das  !  "  I  exclaimed,  thoroughly  angry  by  this 
time.  "  The  rogue  !  The  .scoundrel  !  He  has  not  only 
deserted  us,  but  betrayed  us  as  well.  He  has  told  this  lie  on 
purpose  to  set  the  Tibetans  against  us.  We  must  face  the 
worst  now.     Our  one  chance  is,  to  cajole  these  people." 

The  fat  priest  spoke  again.  "  Wliat  does  he  say  this 
time  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  He  say,  Ram  Das  tell  him  all  this  because  Ram  Das 


..n,i 


|r  i 


3>2 


IlilcUi  Wade 


wit 

m 

fijii 


'  1 


ri>i»l 


N 


Win:.!, 

tip';  ■ 

,i 

lill' 

1 1 

1 

iii, 

1 

lii; 

pi. 

If 

pood  mail  — very  po^'l  "I'l"  :  K""  Das  converted  Buddhist. 
Yen  pay  Ram  Das  to  puidie  you  to  Lhasa.  Hut  Ram  Das 
good  man,  not  want  to  let  ludopean  sue  holy  city  ;  l)rinj; 
you  here  instead  ;  then  tell  priest-sahib  about  it."  And  he 
chuckled  inwardly. 

"  \Vh;it  will  they  do  to  us?  "  Lady  Meadowcroft  asked, 
her  face  very  white,  though  her  manner  was  more  courageous 
than  I  could  easily  have  believed  of  her. 

'*  I  don't  know,"  I  answered,  biting  my  lip.  "  But  we 
must  not  give  way.  We  nuist  put  a  bold  face  upon  it. 
Their  bark,  after  all,  may  be  worse  than  their  bite.  W^e 
may  still  persuade  them  to  let  us  go  back  again." 

The  men  in  yellow  robes  motioned  us  to  move  on  towards 
the  village  and  mona.stery.  We  were  their  pri.soners,  and  it 
was  u.seless  tj  resist.  So  I  ordered  the  bearers  to  take  up 
the  tents  and  l)aggage.  Lady  Meadowcroft  resigned  herself 
to  the  inevitable.  We  mounted  the  path  in  a  long  line,  the 
Lamas  in  yellow  clo.sely  guarding  our  draggled  little  pro- 
cession. I  tried  my  best  to  preserve  my  composure,  and 
above  all  else  not  to  look  dejected. 

As  we  approached  the  village,  with  its  squalid  and  fetid 
huts,  we  caught  the  sound  of  bells,  iniunneralile  bells,  tink- 
ling at  regular  intervals.  Many  people  trooped  out  from 
their  houses  to  look  at  us,  .ill  flat-faced,  all  with  oblique 
eyes,  all  stolidly,  sullenly,  stupidly  passive.  They  seemed 
curious  as  to  our  dress  and  appearance,  but  not  apparently 
hostile.  We  walked  on  to  the  low  line  of  the  monastery 
with  its  pyramidal  roof  and  its  queer,  flower- vase  minarets. 
After  a  moment's  discussion  they  ushered  us  into  the  temple 
or  chapel,  which  was  evidently  also  their  communal  council- 
room  and  place  of  deliberation.      We  entered,   trembling. 


The  (iiiitic  who  Knew  the  C'ountrv     .^i.^ 


klhist. 

ni  Das 

i)riii}; 

Uul  lie 

asked, 

LlgCOUS 

Rut  we 
ion  it. 
J.     We 

owards 
,  and  it 
ake  up 
lierself 
lie,  the 
le  pro- 
e,  and 

d  fetid 
s,  tink- 
it  from 
ol)lique 
seemed 
arentl}' 
nastery 
inarets. 
temple 
rouncil- 
iibling. 


We  liail  no  j;reat  certainty  that  we  would  ever  get  out  of  it 
alive  again. 

The  temple  was  a  larj^e,  oblouR  hall,  with  a  preat  figure 
of  Buddha,    cross- le^;j;e(l,    imperturbable,    enthroned    in    a 


--'«*■.- v^^--,,^  < ^- 


**  ABSORHKI)    IN    HIS   DEVOTIONS." 


niche  at  its  further  end,  like  the  apse  or  recess  in  a  church 
in  Italy.  Before  it  stood  an  altar.  The  Buddha  sat  and 
smiled  on  us  with  his  eternal  smile.  A  complacent  deity, 
carved  out  of  white  stone,  and  gaudily  painted  ;  a  yellow 


i'( 


it 


I   ' 


ffPF 


II 


,1  ' 


m 


ii 

III  ^H 

ff 

1 

I  (hill 


!l 


111! 


.V4 


Hilda  Wade 


robe,  like  the  T/imaH',  dati^li^^fl  ncross  liis  slumlders.  The 
air  seemed  elose  with  incense  and  also  willi  Ind  ventilation. 
The  rcntre  of  the  navi.',  if  I  may  so  call  it,  was  (Kvnpied  by 
a  liu^e  wooden  cylinder,  a  sort  of  over^;rovvn  drmn,  painted 
in  bright  colours,  with  ornamental  designs  and  Tibetan 
letters.  It  was  much  taller  than  a  man,  some  nine  feet  hiKh. 
I  should  say,  and  it  rt;volv»'d  above  and  below  on  an  iron 
spindle.  Looking  closer,  I  saw  it  had  a  crank  attached  to 
it,  with  a  strin^jf  tied  to  the  crank.  A  solitary  monk,  al)- 
sorbed  in  his  devotions,  was  pulling  this  strinj;  as  we  entered, 
and  making;  the  cylinder  revolve  with  a  jerk  as  he  pulled  it. 
At  each  revolution  a  bell  al)ove  ran);  once.  The  monk 
.seemed  as  if  his  whole  soul  was  bound  up  in  the  huge 
revolvini;  drum  and  the  bell  worked  by  it. 

We  took  this  all  in  at  a  glance,  .somewhat  vaguely  at  first, 
for  our  lives  were  at  stake,  anil  we  were  scarcely  in  a  mood 
for  ethnological  observ  itions.  Hut  the  moment  Hilda  saw 
the  cylinder  her  eye  lighted  up.  I  could  .see  at  once  an  idea 
had  struck  her.  "  This  is  a  praying- wheel  !  "  .she  cried,  in 
(juite  a  delighted  voice.  "  I  know  where  T  am  now.  Hubert 
—  I/idy  Meadowcroft  —  I  .see  a  way  out  of  this  !  Do  exactly 
as  you  see  me  do,  and  all  may  yet  go  well.  Don't  show 
surprise  at  anything.  I  think  we  can  work  upon  these 
people's  religious  feelings." 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation  she  prostrated  herself 
thrice  on  the  ground  before  the  figure  of  Buddha,  knocking 
her  head  ostentatiously  in  the  dust  as  she  did  so.  We 
followed  suit  instantly.  Then  Hilda  rose  and  began  walk- 
ing slowly  round  the  big  drum  in  the  nave,  saying  aloud 
at  each  step,  in  a  sort  of  monotonous  chant,  like  a  priest 
intoning,    the   four   mystic   words,    '*  Aum,    niani,    padme. 


Wf 


1  idea 
iecl,  in 
ul)ert 
xaclly 
show 
these 

lerself 
Dckin^ 
We 
walk- 
aloud 
priest 
adme, 


The  C'luiiK'  wlio  Kiuw  the  Country     ;>i5 

hum,"  "  Aiiin,  inani,  paihne.  hum."  miuy  limes  over  We 
repeated  the  sacred  lormul.i  alur  her.  as  if  we  had  always 
heeu  l)r(>UKlU  up  to  it.  I  notiied  tliat  Hilda  walked  the 
way  of  the  suii.  "  is  aii  importaiil  point  in  all  thcs^ 
mysterious,  half  magical  ce  emonies. 

At  list,  nl\er  about  ten  or  twelve  such  rounds,  she  paused, 
with  an  absorbed  air  of  devotion,  and  knocked  her  liead 
three  limes  on  the  j;round  once  nu)re,  doin^  poojah.  before 
the  ever-smiling  Huddha. 

Hy  this  lime,  however,  the  Kssons  of  St.  Alphe^e's  rec- 
tory be>;an  to  recur  lo  I,ail\  Mi.adowcr()f"s  mind.  "Oh. 
Miss  Waile,"  she  nuirnuired  in  an  awestruck  voice,  "  oux/i/ 
we  lo  do  like  this  *     Is  n't  it  ilear  idolatry  ?  " 

Hilda's  connnon  .sense  waved  her  asiile  at  once.  "  Idol- 
atry or  ru)t,  it  is  the  otdy  way  to  save  our  lives,"  she 
answered,  in  her  firmest  voice. 

"  But  — oni^/i/  we  to  save  our  lives  ?  ()uj;ht  n't  we  to  be 
.     .     .     well,  Christian  martyrs  ? " 

Hilda  was  patience  itself.  "  I  think  not,  dear,"  she 
replied,  gently  but  decisively.  "  Von  are  not  called  upon 
lo  be  a  martyr.  The  danger  of  idolatry  is  scarcely  so  .i;reat 
amon^  Ivuropeaus  of  our  time  that  we  need  feel  it  a  (hity  to 
protest  with  our  lives  against  it.  I  have  better  uses  to 
which  to  put  my  life  myself.  I  don't  mind  beinj;  a  martyr 
— where  a  sufficient  cause  demands  it.  lUit  I  don't  think 
such  a  sacrifice  is  rec[uired  of  us  now  in  a  Tibetan  monastery. 
Life  was  not  y;iveu  us  to  waste  on  gratuitous  martyrdoms." 

"  But     .     .     .     really     .     .     .     I  'm  afraid     .     .     ." 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  anything,  dear,  or  you  will  risk  all. 
Follow  my  lead  ;  /  will  an.swer  for  your  conduct.  vSurely, 
if  Naamau,  in  the  midst  of  idolaters,  was  permitted  to  bow 


1 


il^  I: 


h    :•      I 


!'    I 


.v^> 


Hilda  Wacic 


N' 


tlowii  ill  the  liouHc  of  Uiiiiiiioii,  to  nave  his  place  nt  court, 
you  niny  l)tniuck*Hsly  how  down  to  save  your  lilV.'  in  a  niuUlhlHt 
temple.  Now,  no  more  i-.tsttistry,  i)iu  (h)  an  I  tell  you  ! 
'  Aum,  maiii,  pa(hne,  lumi,'  a^ain  !  Once  more  rouiul  the 
drum  tlierc  !  '* 

We  loIIt)\ve(l  her  a  secoiul  lime,  Lady  Mea<U)WcroH  ^ivii-K 
in  alter  a  I'eehlL'  protest.  Tlie  priests  in  yellow  looked 
on,  profoundly  impressed  hy  our  circumnaviKalion.  It  was 
clear  they  he^au  to  reconsider  the  question  of  our  nefarious 
desi^?ns  on  their  holy  city. 

After  we  had  finished  our  secoiitl  lour  round  the  <lrum. 
with  lite  utmost  solemnity,  one  of  the  monks  approached 
Hilda,  whom  he  seemed  to  lake  now  for  an  important 
priestess.  lie  said  somelhiiij;  to  her  in  Tihelan,  which,  of 
course,  we  did  not  understand  ;  but,  as  he  pointed  at  the 
same  time  to  the  hrothcr  on  the  floor  who  was  turning  the 
wheel,  Hilda  noddetl  'C(|uiescence.  '*  If  you  wi.sh  it,"  she 
said  in  ICnj^lish  —  a  e  appeared  to  comprehend.  **  He 
wants  to  know  whether  I  would  like  to  take  a  turn  at  the 
cylinder." 

vShe  knelt  down  in  front  of  it,  before  the  little  stool  where 
the  brother  in  yellow  had  been  kneeling  till  that  moment, 
and  took  the  string  in  her  hand,  as  if  she  were  well  accus- 
tomed to  it.  I  could  see  that  the  ab))ot  gave  the  cylinder  a 
surreptitious  push  with  his  left  hand,  before  .she  began,  so  as 
to  make  it  revolve  in  the  oppcsite  direction  from  that  in 
which  the  monk  had  just  been  moving  it.  This  was  ob- 
viously to  try  her.  Hut  Hilda  let  the  string  drop,  with  a 
little  cry  of  horror.  That  was  the  wrong  way  round — the  un- 
lucky, uncanonical  direction  ;  the  evil  way,  widdershins,  the 
opposite  of  sunwise.     With  an  awed  air  she  stopped  short, 


The  (iiiidc  who  Kiuw  (he  Coimtiy     .^i; 

rctuMtcd  oiicc  more  tlu-  four  inyMic  wonlH,  or  miintm,  niul 
lK)\vfc|  ihrjif  wllh  Will  a^Mimcd  reverence  t»)  tin-  Hiultllia. 
Then  she  sel  the  c>liinler  luriiin^;  of  Ijer  cmii  turtinl.  willi 
her  ri^ht  liaiid,  in  the  propiiions  (liriction,  and  sent  it  round 
heven  limes  with  the  utmost  gravity. 

At  thih  |)uint,  encouraged  by  ililda'H  example,  I  too  l)c- 


•t 


SMK,    lOOK     lilK   SIRINd    IN    IIIK    HANDS. 


came  possessed  of  a  brilliant  inspiration.  I  opened  my  purse 
and  took  out  of  it  four  brand-new  .silver  rupees  of  the  Indian 
coinage.  They  were  very  handsome  and  shiny  coins,  each 
impresseti  with  an  excellent  design  of  the  head  of  the  Queen 
as  Kmpress  of  India.  Holding  them  up  before  me,  I  ap- 
proached the  Baddha,  and  laid  the  four  in  a  row  submissively 
at  his  feet,  uttering  at  the  .same  time  an  appropriate  fornnila. 
But  as  I  did  not  know  the  proper  mantra  for  use  upon  such 


3i8 


Hilda  Wade 


1 


an  occasion,  I  supplied  one  from  memory,  saying,  in  a  husiic'tl 
voice,  "  Hokey — pokey — winky — wum,"  as  I  laid  each  one 
before  the  benij^nly-sniiling  statue.  I  have  no  doul)t  from 
their  faces  the  priests  imagined  I  was  uttering  a  most  powei- 
fid  spell  or  prayer  in  my  own  language. 

As  soon  as  1  retreated,  witli  my  face  towards  the  image, 
the  cliief  Lam  I  glided  up  a»id  examined  the  coins  carefully. 
It  was  clear  he  had  never  seen  anything  of  the  sort  before, 
for  he  gazed  at  them  for  some  minutes,  and  then  showed 
them  round  to  his  monks  with  an  air  of  deep  reverence.  I 
do  not  doull  he  took  the  image  of  her  gracious  Majesty  for 
a  very  mighty  and  potent  goddess.  As  soon  as  all  had  in- 
spected them,  with  many  cries  of  admiration,  he  opened  a 
little  secret  drawer  or  relic-holder  in  the  pedestal  of  the 
statue,  and  deposited  them  in  it  with  a  muttered  prayer,  as 
precious  offerings  from  a  Kuropean  Buddhist. 

By  this  time,  we  could  easily  .see  we  were  beginning  to 
produce  a  most  favourable  impression.  Hilda's  study  of 
Buddhism  had  stood  us  in  good  stead.  The  chief  Lama  or 
abliot  motioned  to  us  to  l)e  seated,  in  a  much  politer  mood  ; 
after  which  he  and  his  principal  monks  held  a  long  and  ani- 
mated conversation  together.  I  gathered  from  their  looks 
and  gestures  that  the  head  Lama  inclined  to  regard  us  as 
orthodox  Buddhists,  but  that  some  of  his  followers  had  grave 
doui)ts  of  their  own  as  to  the  depth  and  reality  of  our  re- 
ligious conviction.s. 

While  they  debated  and  hesitated,  Hilda  had  another 
splendid  idea.  She  luidid  her  portfolio,  and  took  out  of  it 
the  photographs  of  ancient  Buddhist  topes  and  temples 
which  she  had  taken  in  India.  These  she  produced  tri- 
umphantly.    At  once  the  priests  and  monks  crowded  round 


The  Guide  who  Knew  the  Country     319 

us  to  look  at  them.  In  a  moment,  when  they  recoii;nised 
the  meaning  of  the  pictures,  their  excitement  grew  ([uite  in- 
tense. The  pliotographs  were  passed  round  from  hand  to 
hand,  amid  k)ud  exclamations  of  joy  and  surprise.  One 
brother  would  point  out  with  astonishment  to  another  .some 
familiar  syml)ol  or  some  ancient  text  ;  two  or  three  of  them, 
in  their  devout  enthusiasm,  fell  down  on  their  knees  and 
kissed  the  pictures. 

We  had  played  a  trump  card  !  The  monks  could  see  for 
themselves  by  this  time  that  we  were  deeply  interested  in 
Buddhism.  Now,  minds  of  that  calibre  never  understand  a 
disinterested  interest  ;  the  moment  they  saw  we  were  col- 
lectors of  Buddhist  pictures,  they  jumped  at  once  to  the  con- 
clusion that  we  must  also,  of  course,  be  devout  believers.  So 
far  did  they  carry  their  sense  of  fraternity,  indeed,  that  they 
insisted  upon  eml)racing  us.  That  was  a  hard  trial  to  Lady 
Meadowcroft,  for  the  brethren  were  not  conspicuous  for  per- 
sonal cleanliness.  She  suspected  germs,  and  she  dreaded 
typhoid  far  more  than  she  dreaded  the  Tibetan  cutthroat. 

The  brethren  asked,  through  the  medium  of  our  inter- 
preter, the  cook,  where  these  pictures  had  been  made.  We 
explained  as  well  as  we  could  by  means  of  the  same  mouth- 
^)iece,  a  very  earthen  vessel,  that  they  came  from  ancient 
Buddhist  buildings  in  India.  This  delighted  them  still 
more,  though  I  know  not  in  what  form  our  Ghoorkaretniner 
may  have  conveyed  the  information.  At  any  rate,  they  in- 
sisted on  embracing  us  again  ;  after  which  the  chief  Lama 
said  something  very  solemnly  to  our  amateur  interpreter. 

The  cook  interpreted.  "  Priest-sahib  say,  he  too  got  very 
sacred  thing,  come  from  India.  Sacred  Buddhist  poojah- 
thing.     Go  to  show  it  to  you." 


i     !' 


'  I 


W      : 


L 


:p\ 


320 


Hilda  Wade 


?'.ii'  I 


We  waited,  breathless.  The  chief  Lama  approached  the 
altar  before  the  recess,  in  front  of  the  great  cross-legged, 
vapidly  smiling  Buddha.  He  bowed  himself  to  the  ground 
three  times  over,  as  well  ns  his  portly  frame  would  permit 
him,  knocking  his  forehead  against  the  floor,  just  as  Hilda 
had  done  ;  then  he  proceeded,  almost  awestruck,  to  take 
from  the  altar  an  object  wrapped  round  with  gold  brocade, 
and  very  carefully  guatded.  Two  acolytes  accompanied 
him.  In  the  most  reverent  way,  he  slowly  luiwound  the 
folds  of  gold  cloth,  and  released  from  its  hiding-place  the 
highly  sacred  deposit.  He  held  it  up  before  our  eyes  with 
an  air  of  triumph.     It  was  an  Knglish  bottle  ! 

The  label  on  it  shone  with  gold  and  bright  colours.  I 
could  see  it  was  figured.  The  figure  represented  a  cat, 
squatting  on  its  haunches.  The  sacred  inscription  ran,  in 
our  own  tongue,  "  Old  Tom  Gin,  Unsweetened." 

The  monks  bowed  their  heads  in  profound  silence  as  the 
sacred  thing  was  produced.  I  caught  Hilda's  eye.  "  For 
Heaven's  sake,"  I  murmured  low,  "don't  either  of  you 
laugh  !     If  you  do,  it  's  all  up  with  us." 

They  kept  their  countenances  with  admirable  decorum. 

Another  idea  struck  me.  "  Tell  them,"  I  said  to  the  cook, 
"  that  we,  too,  have  a  similar  and  very  powerful  god,  but 
much  more  lively."     He  interpreted  my  words  to  them. 

Then  I  opened  our  stores,  and  drew  out  with  a  flourish  — 
our  last  remaining  bottle  of  Simla  soda-water. 

Very  solemnly  and  seriously  I  unwired  the  cork,  as  if  per- 
forming an  almost  sacrosanct  ceremony.  The  monks  crowded 
round,  with  the  deepest  curiosity.  I  held  the  cork  down  for 
a  second  with  my  thumb,  while  I  uttered  once  more,  in  my 
most  awesome  tone,  the  mystic  words  :  '  *  Hokey  —  pokey  — 


^r^ 


i 


> 


If) 


54 
S5 

Q 

O 


M 

S 


n 


ij|H; 


|;'i. 
V  I 


i 
\ 


ll;:^ 


I  i 


■  I 


■i 


322 


Hilda  VVadc 


winky — wum  !  "  then  I  let  it  fly  suddenly.  The  soda-water 
was  well  up.  The  cork  bounded  to  the  ceiling  ;  the  con- 
tents of  the  bottle  spurted  out  over  the  place  in  the  most 
impressive  fashion. 

For  a  minute  the  Lamas  drew  back  alarmed.  The  thing 
seemed  almost  devilish.  Then  slowly,  reassured  by  our 
composure,  they  crept  back  and  looked.  With  a  glance  of 
inquiry  at  the  abbot,  I  took  out  my  pocket  corkscrew,  and 
drew  the  cork  of  the  gin-bottle,  which  had  never  been 
opened.  I  .signed  for  a  cup.  They  brought  me  one,  rever- 
ently. I  poured  out  a  little  gin,  to  which  I  added  some 
soda-water,  and  drank  first  of  it  myself,  to  show  them  it  was 
not  poison.  After  that,  I  handed  it  to  the  chief  Lama, 
who  sipped  at  it,  sipped  again,  and  emptied  the  cup  at  the 
third  trial.  Evidently  the  sacred  drink  was  very  much 
to  his  taste,  for  he  smacked  his  lips  after  it,  and  turned 
with  exclamations  of  surprised  delight  to  his  inquisitive 
companions. 

The  rest  of  the  soda-water,  duly  mixed  with  gin,  soon 
went  the  round  of  the  expectant  monks.  It  was  greatly  ap- 
proved of.  Unhappil}',  there  was  not  quite  enough  soda- 
water  to  supply  a  drink  for  all  of  them ;  but  those  who  tasted 
it  were  deeply  impressed.  I  could  see  thav  they  took  the 
bite  of  carbonic-acid  gas  for  evidence  of  a  most  powerful  and 
present  deity. 

That  settled  our  position.  We  were  instantly  regarded, 
not  only  as  Buddhists,  but  as  mighty  magicians  from  a  far 
country.  The  monks  made  haste  to  show  us  rooms  destined 
for  our  use  in  the  monastery.  They  were  not  unbearably 
filthy,  and  we  had  our  own  bedding.  We  had  to  spend  the 
night  there,  that  was  certain.     We  had,  at  least,  escaped  the 


^ 


The  (kiidc  who  Knew  the  Country     323 

worst  and  most  prcssinj;  (hiiiKcr.  I  may  add  that  I  believe 
our  cook  to  have  been  a  most  arrant  liar— wliicli  was  a  lucky 
circumstance.  Once  the  wretched  creature  saw  the  tide 
turn,  I  have  reason  to  infer  that  he  supported  our  cause  by 
telling  the  chief  Lama  the  most  incredible  stories  about  our 
holiness  and  power.  At  any  rate,  it  is  certain  that  we  were 
regarded  with  the  utmost  respect,  and  treated  thenceforth 
with  the  affectionate  deference  due  to  acknowledged  and 
certified  sainthood. 

It  began  to  strike  us  now,  however,  that  we  had  almost 
overshot  the  mark  in  this  matter  of  .sanctity.  Wc  had  made 
ourselves  quite  too  holy.  The  monks,  who  were  eager  at 
first  to  cut  our  throats,  thought  .so  nuich  of  us  now  that  we 
grew  a  little  anxious  as  to  whether  they  would  not  wi.sh  to 
keep  such  devout  .souls  in  their  mid.st  for  ever.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  we  spent  a  whole  week  against  our  wills  in  the 
monastery,  being  very  well  fed  and  treated  meanwhile,  yet 
virtually  captives.  It  was  the  camera  that  did  it.  The 
Lamas  had  never  .seen  any  photographs  l)efore.  They  asked 
how  the.se  miraculous  pictures  were  produced;  and  Hilda,  to 
keep  up  the  good  impression,  showed  them  how  she  operated. 
When  a  full-length  portrait  of  the  chief  Lama,  in  his  .sacri- 
ficial robes,  was  actually  printed  off  and  exhibited  before  their 
eyes,  their  delight  knew  no  bounds.  The  ])icture  was 
handed  about  among  the  astonished  brethren,  and  received 
with  loud  shouts  of  joy  and  wonder.  Nothing  would  satisfy 
them  then  but  that  we  must  photograph  every  individual 
monk  in  the  place.  Even  the  Buddha  himself,  cross-legged 
and  imperturbable,  had  to  sit  for  his  portrait.  As  he  was 
used  to  sitting — never,  indeed,  having  done  anything  else — 
he  came  out  admirably. 


Wi 


t 


i 


11 

if: 

1    : 


•■'   i\ 


324 


Hilda  Wado 


Day  after  day  passed  ;  suns  rose  and  suns  set  ;  and  it  was 
clear  that  the  monks  did  not  mean  to  let  ns  leave  their  pre- 
cincts in  a  hurry.  Lady  Meadowcroft,  iiavin^  recovered  by 
this  time  from  her  first  fright,  began  to  grow  bored.  The 
Buddhists'  ritual  ceased  to  interest  her.  To  vary  the 
monotony,  I  hit  upcn  an  expedient  for  killing  time  till  our 
too  pres.sing  hosts  saw  fit  to  let  us  depart.  They  were  fond 
of  religious  processions  of  the  most  protracted  sort  —  dances 
before  the  altar,  with  animal  masks  or  heails,  and  other  weird 
ceremonial  orgies.  Hilda,  who  had  read  herself  up  in  Bud- 
dhist ideas,  assured  me  that  all  these  things  were  done  in 
order  to  heap  up  A.arma. 

"  What  is  Karma  ?  "  I  asked,  listlessly. 

"  Karma  is  good  works,  or  merit.  The  more  praying- 
wheels  you  turn,  the  more  bells  you  ring,  the  greater  the 
merit.  One  of  the  monks  is  alway;»  at  work  turning  the  big 
wheel  that  moves  the  bell,  so  as  to  heap  up  merit  night  and 
day  for  the  monastery." 

This  set  me  thinking.  I  soon  discovered  that,  uo  matter 
how  the  wheel  is  turned,  the  Karma  or  merit  is  equal.  It  is 
the  turning  it  that  counts,  not  the  personal  exertion.  There 
were  wheels  and  bells  in  convenient  situations  all  over  the 
village,  and  whoever  passed  one  gave  it  a  twist  as  he  went 
by,  thus  piling  up  Karma  for  all  the  inhabitants.  Reflecting 
upon  these  facts,  I  was  seized  with  an  idea.  I  got  Hilda  to 
take  instantaneous  photographs  of  all  the  monks  duri  ig  a 
sacred  procession,  at  rapid  intervals.  In  that  sunny  climate 
we  had  no  difficulty  at  all  in  printing  off  from  the  plates  as 
soon  as  developed.  Then  I  took  a  small  wheel,  about  the 
size  of  an  oyster-barrel  —  the  monks  had  dozens  of  them  — 
and  pasted  the  photographs  inside  in  successive  order,  like 


The  (iiiiclu  who  Knew  the  Country     ^2$  . 


in 


what  is  called  a  zoctropc,  or  wheel  of  life.  Hy  cuttiiij;  holes 
in  the  side,  and  arranj^inj;  a  mirror  from  Lady  Meadowcroft's 
dressing-hag,  I  comjjleted  my  mathiiie,  so  that,  when  it  was 
turned  round  rapidly,  one  saw  the  procession  actually  taking 
l)lace  as  if  the  figures  were  moving.  'I'he  thing,  in  short, 
made  a  livitig  picture  like  a  citiematograph.  A  moinitain 
stream  ran  past  the  monastery,  and  supplied  it  with  water. 
I  had  a  second  inspiration.  I  was  always  mechanical.  I 
fixed  a  water  wheel  in  the  stream,  where  it  made  a  petty 
cataract,  and  connected  it  by  means  of  a  small  crank  with 
the  barrel  of  ]>hotogiaphs.  My  zoetrope  thus  worked  off 
itself,  and  piled  uj»  Karma  for  all  the  village  whether  anyone 
happened  to  be  looking  at  it  or  not. 

The  monks,  who  were  really  excellent  fello^vs  when  not 
engaged  in  cutting  throats  ii,  the  interest  of  the  faith,  re- 
garded this  device  as  a  great  and  glorious  religious  in- 
vention. They  went  down  on  their  knees  to  it.  and  were 
profoundly  re.spectfu.  They  also  bowed  to  me  so  deeply, 
when  I  first  exhibited  it,  that  I  began  to  be  puffel  up  with 
spiritual  pride.  Lady  Meadowcroft  recalled  me  to  my  better 
self  by  murmuring,  with  a  sigh  :  "  I  suppose  we  really  can't 
draw  a  line  now  ;  but  it  docs  seem  to  me  like*  encouraging 
idolatry  !" 

*'  Purely  mechanical  encouragement,"  I  answered,  gazing 
at  my  handicraft  with  an  inventor's  pardonable  pride.  "  You 
see,  it  is  the  turning  itself  that  does  good,  not  any  prayers 
attached  to  it.  I  divert  the  idolatry  from  human  worshippers 
to  an  unconscious  stream  —  which  nuist  surely  be  meri- 
torious." Then  I  thought  of  the  mystic  sentence,  "  Aum, 
mani,  padme,  hum."  "  What  a  pity  it  is,"  T  cried,  "  I 
could  n't  make  them  a  phonograph  to  repeat  their  mantra  ! 


I 


326 


Hilda  Wacic 


l!  'i!.  i 


hi 


If  I  could,  they  iniKht  fulfil  all  their  relij;ious  duties  toj;ether 
by  inachitiery  !  " 

Hilda  rellected  a  secoud.  *'  There  is  a  ^reat  future,"  she 
said  at  last,  "  for  the  niau  who  first  introduces  smoke-jacks 
into  Tihet  !  Ivvery  household  will  buy  one,  as  an  automatic 
means  of  acciuirin^  Karma." 

"  Don't  publish  that  idea  in  Isnj^land  !  "  I  exclaimed, 
hastily  —  "if  ever  we  ^et  there.  As  sure  as  you  do,  some- 
body will  see  in  it  an  opcniu};  for  lirilish  trade;  and  we  shall 
.spend  twenty  millions  on  coiujuering  Tibet,  in  the  interests 
of  civilisation  and  a  smoke-jack  syndicate." 

Mow  lonj;  we  mi^ht  have  stopped  at  the  monastery  I  can- 
not say,  had  it  not  been  for  the  intervention  of  an  unex- 
pected episode  which  occurred  just  a  week  after  our  first 
arrival.  We  were  comfortable  enough  in  a  rough  way,  with 
our  Ghoorka  cook  to  prepare  our  food  for  us,  and  our  bearers 
to  wait  ;  but  to  the  end  I  never  felt  quite  sure  of  our  hosts, 
who,  after  all,  were  entertaining  us  under  false  pretences. 
We  had  told  them,  truly  enough,  that  Buddhist  missionaries 
had  now  penetrated  to  Kngland  ;  and  though  they  had  not 
the  .slightest  conception  where  Kngland  might  be,  and  knew 
not  the  name  of  Madame  Blavatsky,  this  news  intere.sted 
them.  Regarding  us  as  promising  neophytes,  they  were 
anxious  now  that  we  should  go  on  to  Lhasa,  in  order  to  re- 
ceive full  instruction  in  the  faith  from  the  chief  fountain- 
head,  the  Grand  Lama  in  person.  To  this  we  demurred. 
Mr.  Landor's  experiences  did  not  encourage  us  to  follow  his 
lead.  The  monks,  for  their  part,  could  not  understand  our 
reluctance.  They  thought  that  every  well-intentioned  con- 
vert must  wish  to  Hiake  the  pilgrimage  to  Lhasa,  the  Mecca  of 
their  creed.     Our  hesitation  threw  some  doubt  on  the  reality 


The  (aiidc  who  Kiu'w  the  ('ountry     327 

of  otir  conversion.  A  proselyte,  alxne  all  men,  slionld  never 
be  Inkewarnj.  Tliey  expected  ns  to  embrace  tlie  opportnnity 
with  fervonr.  We  mij;lit  l)c  massacred  on  the  way,  to  be 
sure  ;  but  what  did  tliat  matter  '     \Vc  should  be  dyin>;  for 


"SAIIIU   AND    MEM.SAIin»S    MUST   wO    AWAV. 

the  faith,  and  ought  to  be  charmed  at  so  splendid  a  prospect, 
^n  the  day-week  after  our  arrival  the  chief  Lama  came  to 
me  at  nightfall.  His  face  was  serious.  He  spoke  to  me 
through  our  accredited  interpreter,  the  cook.  "  Priest  sahib 
say,  very  important  ;  the  .sahib  and  mem-sahibs  must  go 
away  from  here  before  sun  get  up  to-morrow  morning." 


V  1 

'1, 


\  ; 


Itf 


m 


liii 

" ".  (   '  ■ 

32.H 


Hilda  Wade 


i( 


Why  so  ?  •'  I  asked,  as  astonislicd  as  I  was  pleased. 

*'  I'riest-saliih  say,  he  Hke  you  very  uuuIj;  oil,  very,  very 
much  ;  no  want  to  see  villay;e  people  kill  you." 

"  Kill  us!     Hut  I  thou>;lit  Jjey  iK-lievcd  we  were  saints!  " 

"  Priest  say,  that  just  it;  to«)  much  saint  aU«)Kether.  Peo- 
ple hereabout  all  telling  th  it  the  sahih  and  the  mem-saliihs 
\'ery  j;reat  saints  ;  nmch  holy,  l.ke  Huddha.  Make  picture  ; 
work  miracles.  People  think,  if  them  kill  you,  and  have 
your  tond)  here,  very  holy  place  ;  very  ^reat  Knrma  ;  very 
j^ood  for  trade  ;  plenty  Tihetan  man  hear  vo\i  holy  men, 
come  here  on  pilj;riinaj.(i.'.  Pil^rima^e  make  fair,  make 
market,  very  ^ood  for  village.  »So  people  want  to  kill  you, 
build  shrine  over  your  body." 

This  was  a  view  of  the  advantap^es  of  sanctity  which  had 
never  before  struck  mc.  Now,  I  had  not  been  eajrer  even 
for  the  di.stinction  of  being  a  Christian  martyr  ;  as  to  being 
a  Buddhist  martyr,  that  was  quite  out  of  the  question. 
*'  Then  what  does  the  lyama  advise  us  to  do  ?  "  I  asked. 

**  Priest-sahib  sav  he  love  you  ;  no  want  to  see  village 
people  kill  you.  He  give  you  guide  —  very  good  guide  — 
know  mountains  well  ;  take  you  back  .straight  to  Mahara- 
jah's country." 

"  Not  Ram  Das?  "  I  asked,  suspiciously. 

"  No,  not  Ram  Das.     Very  good  man  —  Tibetan." 

I  .saw  at  once  this  was  a  genuine  crisis.  All  was  hastily 
arranged.  I  went  in  and  told  Hilda  and  Lady  Meadowcroft. 
Our  .spoilt  child  cried  a  little,  of  course,  at  the  idea  of  being 
er.shrined  ;  but  on  the  whole  behaved  admirably.  At  early 
dawn  next  morning,  before  the  village  was  awake,  we  crept 
with  stealthy  steps  out  of  the  monastery,  whose  ijimates  were 
friendly.     Our   new  guide  accompanied   us.     We  avoided 


■ 


The  Guiilc  who  Knew  the  Couiitrv    .^^9 


up 


the  village,  on  whose  ontsktrts  the*  l;ini:\Hcry  lay,  and  iiuult' 
Htrai>;lit  for  tlic  valley.  Hy  «ix  o'clock,  wc  were  well  out  of 
sJKht  of  the  cluslcrc*!  houses  and  the  pyrajuidd  spires.  Hut 
I  (Ud  not  breathe  freely  till  late  in  the  afternoi  n,  when  \vc 
found  ourselves  once  inoie  under  Hritish  protection  ill  the 
first  hamlet  of  the  Maharajah's  territory. 

As  for  that  .scoundrel,  Ram  I).»s,  we  heard  nothing  moie 
of  iiim.  lie  disappeared  into  space  from  the  moment  he  de- 
serted us  at  the  door  of  the  trap  hito  which  he  had  led  us. 
The  chief  Lama  told  Ut;*  he  had  gone  back  at  once  by  another 
route  to  his  own  country. 


Ilii 

I 


!  I 


V    • 


I 

^1 


1^ 


1 


: 


1 

iri 

^r.^^: 


CIIAPTI'iR  XI 


TIIK    KI'ISODI';   Ol"   TMK  Ol  riCI-K    WHO   1'NI)I:KST()()I) 

I'I'KI'lvCTLV 

AFTICR  our  fortiuiate  escape  from  i\\v  chitclics  of  our 
too-iulniiriuK  Til)C'tan  hosts,  \vc  vvouiul  our  way 
slowly  )):ick  through  the  Maharajah's  territory 
towards  Sir  Ivor's  headciuarters.  On  the  third  day  out 
from  the  lauiasery  we  camped  iu  a  romautic  Iliuialayau 
valley — a  narrow,  ^reen  k1«?».  with  a  brawlinjj;  stream  run- 
niu};  in  white  cataracts  and  rapids  down  its  midst.  We 
were  able  to  breathe  freely  now  ;  we  could  enjoy  the  great 
tapering  deodars  that  rose  in  ranks  on  the  hillsides,  the 
snow-clad  needles  of  ramping  rock  that  bounded  the  view 
«!'  north  and  south,  the  feathery  bamboo-jungle  that  friugeil 
and  half-obscured  the  mountain  torrent,  whose  cool  music — 
alas,  fallaciously  cool — was  borne  to  us  through  the  dense 
screen  of  waving  foliage.  Lady  Meadowcroft  was  so  de- 
lighted at  having  got  clear  away  from  those  murderous  and 
saintly  Tibetans  that  for  a  while  she  almost  forgot  to 
grumble.  She  even  condescended  to  admire  the  deep-cleft 
ravine  in  which  we  bivouacked  for  the  night,  and  to  admit 
that  the  orchids  which  hung  from  the  tall  trees  were  as  fine 
as  any  at  her  florist's  in  Piccadilly.     "  Though  how  they 

330 


I 


I  hi:  ( )HiciT  who  I 'lulcrstooci  IViicctly  331 

can  have  K<>t  tlit'tn  out  here  nlrendy,  in  this  otttliMwIinh  place 
—the*  iMOHt  fanhioiiaMc  kiiuls  wlicii  nv>-  in  ICii^;Liii(l  liivc  to 
Krow  them  willi  such  care  iu  cxpcUHivc  hot  Iiouhch,  "  nhe 
Haid,  **  really  pasMcs  my  coinprcluMision.** 

She  .seemed  to  think  that  orchids  originated  in  Covent 
Clarden. 

Iv'irly  next  morning;  I  was  en^;aKed  with  one  ol  my  native 
men  iu  lightiuK  the  fire  to  Woil  our  kettle— for  iu  spite  of  ntl 
misfortunes  wl>  still  uuule  tea  with  creditable  punctuality — 
when  a  tall  and  n;ood"lookinj;  Ne|>aulesc  apj>ro.iched  us  froiv> 
the  hills,  with  cat-like  tread,  and  stood  belore  me  in  an  atti* 
tnde  of  profound  supj)lication.  I  le  was  a  \vell-«lresscd  youiiK 
man,  like  a  superior  native  servant  ;  his  face  was  broad  aiuJ 
flat,  but  kindly  and  ^ood-humoured.  lie  salaamed  many 
times,  but  still  said  uotliiu)^. 

"  Ask  him  what  he  wants,"  I  cried,  turning;  to  our  fair- 
weather  friend,  the  cook. 

The  deferential  Nepaulese  did  not  wait  to  l)e  asked. 
*'  Salaam,  sahib,"  he  .said,  iunvin^  a^aiu  very  low  till  his 
forehead  almost  touched  the  ground.  "  Vou  are  luilopean 
doctor,  .sahib  ?  " 

"I  am,"  I  answered,  taken  aback  at  beinj;  thus  recog- 
nised in  the  forests  of  Nepaul.  "  Hut  how  iu  wonder  did 
you  come  to  know  it  ?  " 

**  You  camp  near  here  when  you  pass  dis  way  before,  and 
yoti  doctor  little  native  girl,  who  got  sore  eyes.  All  de 
country  here  tell  you  is  very  great  physician.  vSo  I  come 
and  to  .see  if  you  will  turn  aside  to  my  village  to  help  us." 

"  Where  did  you  learn  ICnglish  ?  "  I  exclaimed,  more  and 
more  astonished. 

"I   is  servant   one    time  at    British    Lesident's    at    de 


•> 


?! 


I    1 


■*  il    ! 


3o^ 


IliKla  Wade 


io, 


Nl 


•^1 


:H.i 


M;iliar.ij.iirs  city.  I'ick  up  ICiij^lisli  dew.  Also  pick  up 
plenty  hipce.  \'elly  i;ooil  business  at  Hrilisli  Lcsiilciirs.  Now 
gone  \)Ack  hoMU'  Id  my  own  villaj;c,  Ictiicd  ^cutlcuKUi." 
Anil  he  dtew  hiniselt'up  with  conscious  dignity. 

I  surveyed  the  retireil  j;enllenian  iVoju  heail  to  foot.  He 
h.ul  au  air  of  ilistinction,  which  not  even  liis  hare  toes  coulil 
altogether  mar.  He  was  evidently  a  person  of  local  import- 
auce.  "  .\nd  what  ilid  you  want  me  to  visit  your  village 
for?"  I  inquired,  dubiously. 

"  White  traveller  .sahib  ill  dere,  sir.  \'ely  ill  ;  got 
plague.  Great  lirst-class  sahib,  all  .same  like  (lovernor. 
III.  tit  to  die  ;  send  me  out  all  times  to  try  liiul  Ivulopeaii 
doctor." 

"  Plague?"  I  repeated,  startled.     He  uodded. 

"  Yes,  plague  ;  all  same  like  dem  liab  him  so  bad  down 
Bombay  way." 

"  Do  you  know  his  uame  ?  "  I  asked  ;  for  though  one 
does  uot  like  to  desert  a  fellow-creature  in  distress,  I  did  not 
care  to  turn  aside  from  my  road  on  such  au  errand,  with 
Hilda  and  I/\dy  Meuiowcrol't,  unless  for  some  amply  suffi- 
cient rea.son. 

The  retired  gentleman  shook  his  head  in  the  most  em- 
phatic fashion.  "  How  me  know?"  he  answered,  opening 
the  palms  of  his  hands  as  if  to  show  he  had  nothing  con- 
cealed in  them.  "  Forget  luilopean  name  all  times  so 
easily.  And  traveller  sahib  name  very  hard  to  lemember. 
Not  got  English  name.     Him  Kulopean  foleigner." 

'*  A  European  foreigner!  "  I  repeated.  "And  you  say  he 
is  seriously  ill  ?  Plague  is  no  trifle.  Well,  wait  a  minute  ; 
I  '11  see  what  the  ladies  say  about  it.  How  far  off  is  your 
village?" 


'I'hc  OHicci-  who  I 'ndurstooil  IVrlcilly  s.v> 


lie  poinUd  willi  his  liaiul,  soiiuwliiit  v;ikmlI>  ,  to  llir  hill- 
side. "  Two  horns'  w.ilk,"  in.-  ;ins\vcrcil,  wilh  iUv  inomit- 
aiiR'cr's  hahil  t)!' rirkonin^;  dislatuc  by  titiic,  which  ixtciids, 
under  tlic  like  oiivimislaiiees,  ihe  wliole  woi Id  ovti . 

I  went  hack  to  the  tents,  and  consulted  Hilda  and  1/idy 
Meadowcroft.  (hir  spoilt  child  ponied,  and  was  ulleil> 
averse  to  any  detour  of  any  sort.  "  Lit  's  j;et  hack  straight 
to  Ivor,"  she  said,  petulantly.  "  I  've  had  enough  of 
canipinj;  out.  It  's  all  very  well  in  its  way  for  a  week  ;  hnt 
when  they  hej^in  to  talk  ah'  ii  'Ullini;  yoiu'  throat  and  all 
that,  it  ceases  to  he  a  joke  a  d  h. (  ')nus  a  wee  hit  nncoinlort- 
ahle.      I  want  my  leather  hed.      I  ohjeit  to  their  villages." 

"  Hut  consider,  <lear,"  Hilda  said,  Kcntly.  "  This  travel- 
ler is  ill,  all  alone  in  a  stran.i;e  land.  How  can  Hubert 
desert  him  .-*  It  is  a  doctor's  duty  to  do  what  he  can  to 
alleviate  pain  and  to  cure  the  sick.  What  would  we  have 
thought  ourselves,  when  we  were  at  the  lamasery,  if  a  body 
of  ICuroj^eau  travellers  had  known  we  were  there,  imprisoned 
and  in  dani^er  of  our  lives,  and  had  passeil  by  on  the  other 
side  without  attemptinj;  to  rescue  us  ?  " 

I.ady  Meadowcroft  knit  her  forehead.  "  That  was  Us," 
she  said,  v.  itli  an  impatient  nod,  after  a  pause  -"  and  this 
is  another  jierson.  You  can't  turn  aside  for  everybody 
who  's  ill  in  all  Nepanl.  And  plaj^ne,  too! — so  horrid  ! 
Tiesides,  how  do  we  know  this  is  n't  another  plan  of  these 
hateful  people  to  leatl  us  into  danjj;er  ?  " 

"  Lady  Meadowcroft  is  ([uite  rij;ht,"  I  said,  hastily.  "  I 
never  thought  about  that.  There  may  be  no  plague,  >io 
patient  at  all.  I  will  go  up  with  this  man  alone,  Hilda,  and 
find  out  the  truth.  It  will  only  take  me  five  hours  at  most. 
Hy  noon  I  shall  be  back  with  you." 


I' 


I.', 


3.U 


Hilda  Wade 


r'\'' 


I*  I  ^ 


k  * 


"  What  ?  And  leave  us  here  unprotected  among  the  wild 
beasts  and  the  savages  i*  "  Lac'.y  Meadowcroft  cried,  horri- 
fied. "  In  the  midst  of  the  fo  est  !  Dr.  Cumberledge,  hc^vv 
can  you  ? ' ' 

"  You  are  710/  unprotectec ,"  I  answered,  soothing  her. 
"  You  liave  Hilda  with  you.  vShe  is  worth  ten  men.  And 
besides,  our  Nepaulese  are  fairly  trustworthy." 

Hilda  bore  me  out  in  my  resolve.  Slie  was  too  much  of  a 
nurse,  and  had  imbibed  too  much  of  the  true  medical  senti- 
ment, to  let  me  desert  a  man  in  peril  of  his  life  in  a  tropi- 
cal jungle.  So,  in  spite  of  Lady  Meadowcroft,  I  was  soon 
winding  my  way  up  a  steep  mountain  track,  overgrowi  with 
creeping  Indian  weeds,  on  my  road  to  the  still  problemaujal 
village  graced  by  the  residence  of  the  retired  gentleman. 

After  two  hours'  hard  climbing  we  reached  it  at  last.  The 
retired  gentleman  led  the  way  to  a  house  in  a  street  of  the 
little  wooden  hamlet.  The  door  was  low  ;  I  had  to  stoop  to 
enter  it.  I  saw  in  a  moment  this  was  indeed  no  trick.  On 
a  native  bed,  in  a  corner  of  the  one  room,  a  man  lay  desper- 
ately ill  ;  a  Ruropean,  with  white  hair  and  with  a  skin  well 
bronzed  by  exposure  to  the  tropics.  Ominous  dark  spots 
beneath  the  epidermis  showed  the  nature  of  the  disease.  He 
tossed  restlessly  as  he  lay,  but  did  not  raise  his  fevered  head 
or  look  at  my  conductor.  "  Well,  any  news  of  Ram  Das?  " 
he  asked  at  last,  in  a  parched  and  feeble  voice.  Parched 
and  feeble  as  it  was,  I  recognised  it  instantly.  The  man  on 
the  bed  was  Sebastian — no  other  ! 

"  No,  no  news  of  Lam  Das,"  the  retired  gentleman 
replied,  with  an  unexpected  display  of  womanly  tenderness. 
**  Lam  Das  clean  gone  ;  not  come  any  more.  But  I  bling 
you  back  Eulopean  doctor,  sahib." 


The  Officer  who  Understood  Perfectly  335 


Sebastian  did  not  look  up  from  his  bed  even  theti.  I 
could  see  he  was  more  anxious  al)OUt  a  message  from  his 
scout  than  about  his  own  condition.  "  The  rascal  !  "  he 
moaned,  with  his  eyes  closed  tight.  "  The  rascal  !  he  has 
betrayed  me."     And  he  tossed  uneasily. 

I  looked  at  him  and  .said  nothing.  Then  I  seated  myself 
on  a  low  .stool  by  the  bedside  and  took  his  hand  in  mine  to 
feel  his  pulse.  The  wrist  was  thin  and  wasted.  The  fiice, 
too,  I  noticed,  had  fallen  away  greatly.  It  was  clear  that 
the  malignant  fever  which  accompanies  the  disease  had 
wreaked  its  worst  on  him.  So  weak  and  ill  w;is  he,  indeed, 
that  he  let  me  hold  his  hand,  with  my  fingers  on  his  pul.se, 
for  half  a  minute  or  more  without  ever  opening  his  eyes  or 
displaying  the  slightest  curiosity  at  my  presence.  One 
might  have  thought  that  European  doctors  abounded  in 
Nepaul,  and  that  I  had  been  attending  him  for  a  week,  with 
"  the  mixture  as  before  "  at  every  visit. 

"  Your  pulse  is  weak  and  very  rapid,"  I  said  slowly,  in  a 
professional  tone.  "  You  seem  to  me  to  have  fallen  into  a 
perilous  condition." 

At  the  sound  of  my  voice,  he  gave  a  sudden  .start.  Yet 
even  so,  for  a  .second,  he  did  not  open  his  eyes.  The  revel- 
ation of  my  presence  seemed  to  come  upon  him  as  in  a 
dream.  "  Like  Cumberledge's,"  he  muttered  to  himself, 
gasping.  "  Exactly  like  Cumberledge's.  .  .  .  But 
Cumberledge  is  dead  ...  I  must  be  delirious.  .  .  . 
If  I  did  n't  know  to  the  contrary,  I  could  have  sworn  it  was 
Cumberledge's!" 

I  spoke  again,  bending  over  him.  "  How  long  have  the 
glandular  swellings  been  present,  Professor?"  I  asked, 
with  quiet  deliberativeness. 


!   i: 


i^ 


1} 


'«■ 


336 


Hilda  Wade 


This  time  he  opened  his  eyes  shnrply,  and  looked  up  in 
my  face.  He  swallowed  a  great  gulp  of  surprise.  His 
breath  came  and  went.  He  raised  himself  on  his  elbows 
and  stared  at  me  with  a  fixed  .stare.  "  Cuml)crledge  !  "  he 
cried  ;  "  Cumberledge  !  Come  back  to  life,  then  !  They 
told  me  you  were  dead  !    And  here  you  are,  Cumberledge!  " 


"  CUMBKRLElHiE  !      COME    BACK    TO   LIFE,    THEN!" 

*'  W/io  told  you  I  was  dead  ?  "  I  asked,  sternly. 

He  stared  at  me,  still  in  a  dazed  way.  He  was  more  than 
haM  comatose.  "  Your  guide,  Ram  Das,"  he  answered  at 
last,  half  incoherently.  "  He  came  back  by  himself.  Came 
back  without  you.  He  swore  to  me  he  had  seen  all  your 
throats  cut  in  Tibet.  He  alone  had  escaped.  The  Buddhists 
had  massacred  you." 

"  He  told  you  a  lie,"  I  said,  shortly. 


The  Officer  who  Uiulerstood  Perfectly  337 

**  I  thought  so.  I  thought  so.  And  I  soiit  liini  l)ack  for 
confirmatory  evir'.L:nce.  But  the  rogue  has  never  brouglit 
it."  He  let  his  head  drop  on  his  rude  pillow  heavily. 
"  Never,  never  brought  it  !  " 

I  gazed  at  liini,  full  of  horror.  The  man  was  too  ill  to 
hear  me,  too  ill  to  reason,  too  ill  to  recognise  the  meaning 
of  his  own  words,  almost.  Otherwise,  perliaps,  he  would 
hardly  liave  expressed  himself  ((uite  so  frankly.  Though  to 
be  sure  he  had  said  nothing  to  criminate  himself  in  any 
way  ;  his  action  might  have  been  due  to  anxiety  for  our 
safety. 

I  fixed  my  glance  on  him  long  and  dubiously.  What 
ought  I  to  do  next  ?  As  for  Sebastian,  he  lay  with  his  eyes 
closed,  half  oblivious  of  my  presence.  The  fever  had 
gripped  him  hard.  He  shivered,  and  looked  helpless  as  a 
child.  In  such  circumstances,  the  instincts  of  my  profession 
rose  imperative  within  me.  I  could  not  nurse  a  case  prop- 
erly in  this  wretched  hut.  The  one  thing  to  be  done  was  to 
carry  the  patietit  down  to  our  camp  in  the  valley.  There, 
at  least,  we  had  air  and  pure  running  water. 

I  asked  a  few  questions  from  the  retired  gentleman  as  to 
the  possibility  of  obtaining  sufficient  bearers  in  the  village. 
As  I  supposed,  any  number  were  forthcoming  inunediately. 
Your  Nepaulese  is  by  nature  a  beast  of  burden  ;  he  can 
carry  anything  up  and  down  the  mountains,  and  spends  his 
life  in  the  act  of  carrying. 

I  pulled  out  my  pencil,  tore  a  leaf  from  my  note-book, 
and  scribbled  a  hasty  note  to  Hilda  :  "  The  invalid  is — 
whom  do  you  think  ? — Sebastian  !  He  is  dangerously  ill 
with  some  malignant  fever.  I  am  bringing  him  down  into 
camp  to  nurse.     Get  everything  ready  for  him."     Then  I 

32 


f\ 


\ 

J 


I    .  .'' 


H:. 


lf\ 


%  i 


33S 


Hilda  Wade 


h 


4 


1-5  P^ 


It 


haiick'd  it  over  to  a  messenger,  found  for  nie  by  the  retired 
gentleman,  to  carry  to  Hilda.  My  host  himself  I  could  not 
spare,  as  he  was  my  only  interpreter. 

In  a  conple  of  hours  we  had  improvised  a  rough,  woven- 
grass  hannnock  as  an  ambulance  couch,  had  engaged  our 
bearers,  and  had  got  Sebastian  under  way  for  the  camp  by 
the  river. 

When  I  arrived  at  our  tents,  I  found  Hilda  had  prepared 
everything  for  our  patient  with  her  usual  cleverness.  Not 
only  had  she  got  a  bed  ready  for  Sel)astian,  who  was  now 
almost  insen.sible,  but  she  had  even  cooked  some  arrowroot 
from  our  stores  beforehand,  .so  that  he  might  have  a  little 
food,  with  a  dash  of  brandy  in  it,  to  recover  him  after  the 
fatigue  of  the  journey  down  the  mountain.  By  the  time 
we  had  laid  him  out  on  a  mattress  in  a  cool  tent,  with  the 
fresh  air  blowing  about  him,  and  had  made  him  eat  the 
meal  prepared  for  him,  he  really  began  to  look  comparatively 
comfortable. 

Lady  Meadowcroft  was  now  our  chief  trouble.  We  did 
not  dare  to  tell  her  it  was  really  plague  ;  but  she  had  got 
near  enough  back  to  civilisation  to  have  recovered  her 
faculty  for  profuse  grumbling  ;  and  the  idea  of  the  delay 
that  Sei)astian  would  cause  us  drove  her  wild  with  annoy- 
ance. "  Only  two  days  off  from  Ivor,"  she  cried,  "  and 
that  comfortable  bungalow  !  And  now  to  think  we  must 
stop  here  in  the  woods  a  week  or  ten  days  for  this  horrid 
old  Professor  !  Why  can't  he  get  worse  at  once  and  die  like 
a  gentleman  ?  But,  there  !  with  jvu  to  nurse  him,  Hilda, 
he  '11  never  get  worse.  He  could  n't  die  if  he  tried.  He  '11 
linger  on  and  on  for  weeks  and  weeks  through  a  beastly 
convalescence  ! ' ' 


The  Officer  who  rmlcrstood  IVrfcctlv   ^}9 


"  Hul)crt."  Ilildii  said  to  \\\v,  when  \vc  wcrt*  nlotie  once 
more  ;  "  we  must  n't  keep  her  liere.  SIk-  will  be  a  hind- 
rance, not  a  help.  One  way  or  ajiother  we  nuist  manage  to 
j;et  rid  of  her." 


"\VE   MUST    MANAGK   TO   GET    KID   OV    HKR, 

"  How  can  we  ?  "  I  asked.  "  We  can't  turn  her  loose 
upon  the  mountain  roads  with  a  Nepaulese  escort.  She 
is  n't  fit  for  it.     She  would  be  frantic  with  terror." 

"  I  've  thought  of  that,  and  I  see  only  one  thing  possible. 
I  must  go  oil  with  her  myself  as  fast  as  we  can  push  to  Sir 


I   '" 


\H 


i 


340 


Hilda  Wade 


»ir 


Ivor's  place,  and  then  return  to  help  you  nurse  the  Pro- 
fessor. ' ' 

I  saw  she  was  rij^ht.  It  was  the  sole  plan  open  to  us. 
And  I  had  no  fear  of  letting  Hilda  j;o  off  alone  with  Lady 
Meadowcroft  and  the  l)earers,  She  was  a  host  in  herself, 
and  could  manage  a  party  of  native  servants  at  least  as  well 
as  I  could. 

So  Hilda  went,  and  came  hack  again.  Meanwhile,  I  took 
charge  of  the  imrsing  of  Sebastian.  I'ortunately,  I  had 
brought  with  mc  a  good  .stock  of  jungle-medicines  in  my 
little  travelling-case,  including  plenty  of  quinine  ;  and 
under  my  careful  treatment  the  Profes.sor  passed  the  crisis 
and  began  to  uilmuI  .slowly.  The  first  (piestion  he  a.sked  me 
when  he  felt  himself  able  to  talk  once  more  was,  "  Nur.se 
Wade — what  has  become  of  her?  " — for  he  had  not  yet  seen 
her.     I  feared  the  .shock  for  him. 

"  She  is  here  with  me,"  I  answered,  in  a  very  measured 
voice.  "  She  is  waiting  to  be  allowed  to  come  and  help  me 
in  taking  care  of  you." 

He  shuddered  and  turned  away.  His  face  buried  itself  in 
the  pillow.  I  could  .see  some  twinge  of  remorse  had  seized 
upon  him.  At  last  he  .spoke.  "  Cunibededge,"  he  said,  in 
a  very  low  and  almost  frightened  tone,  "  don't  let  her  come 
near  me  !     I  can't  bear  it.     I  can't  bear  it." 

Ill  as  he  was,  I  did  not  mean  to  let  him  think  I  was 
ignorant  of  his  motive.  "  You  can't  bear  a  woman  whose 
life  you  have  attempted,"  I  said,  in  my  coldest  and  most 
deliberate  way,  "  to  have  a  hand  in  nursing  you  !  You  can't 
bear  to  let  her  heap  coals  of  fire  on  your  head  !  In  that 
you  are  right.  But,  remember,  you  have  attempted  my  life 
too  ;  you  have  twice  done  your  best  to  get  me  murdered. ' ' 


The  Orticcr  wlio  I'lukTstoocI  IVrfcctly  ;>4' 

He  {lid  not  pretend  to  deny  it.  He  was  too  weak  for  suh- 
tcrfii^cs.  He  only  wrillied  as  he  lay.  "  Voii  are  a  inaji," 
he  said,  shortly,  "  and  .she  is  a  woman.  'Pli.it  is  all  the 
dilTcrence."  Then  he  pansed  for  a  niinnteor  two.  "  Don't 
let  her  come  near  me,"  he  moaned  once  njore,  in  a  piteous 
voice.     "  Don't  let  her  come  near  me  !  " 

"  I  will  not,"  I  answered.  "  She  shall  not  come  neai 
yon.  I  spare  you  that.  IJnt  you  will  have  to  eat  the  food 
.she  prepares  ;  and  you  know  s/zr  will  not  poison  you.  Vou 
will  have  to  he  tended  by  the  servants  she  choo.ses  ;  and 
you  know  //it  \'  will  not  murder  you.  vShe  can  heap  coals  of 
fire  on  your  heail  without  cominjj:  into  your  tent.  Consider 
that  you  .sought  to  take  her  life  —  anil  she  seeks  to  save 
yours  !  She  is  as  anxious  to  keep  you  alive  as  you  are 
anxious  to  kill  her." 

He  lay  as  in  a  reverie.  His  lonj?  white  hair  made  his 
clear-cut,  thin  face  look  more  unearthly  than  ever,  with  the 
hectic  flush  of  fever  upon  it.  At  last  he  turned  to  me. 
"  \Ve  each  work  for  our  own  ends,"  he  .said,  in  a  weary 
way.  "  We  pursue  our  own  objects.  It  suits  ff/c  to  ^et  rid 
of //<•/■.•  it  .suits  /nr  to  keep  mc  ali^'e.  I  am  no  good  to  her 
dead  ;  living,  .she  expects  to  wring  a  confession  out  of  me. 
But  .she  shall  not  have  it.  Tenacity  of  purpose  is  the  one 
thing  I  admire  in  life.  She  has  the  tenacity  of  purpose — 
and  so  have  I.  Cumberledge,  don't  you  see  it  is  a  mere 
duel  of  endurance  between  us  ?  " 

"  And  may  the  just  side  win,"  I  answered,  .solemnly. 

It  was  .several  days  later  before  he  spoke  to  me  of  it  again. 
Hilda  had  brought  .some  food  to  the  door  of  the  tent  and 
passed  it  in  to  me  for  our  patient.  "  How  is  he  now  ?  "  she 
whispered. 


:!< 


4 
« 


342 


Hilda  Wade 


}"  'i  ^ 


vScl)a.sli.iii  o\  erhcartl  her  voice,  and,  coweriiiR  witlnii  him- 
self, .still  managed  to  answer  :  "  Ik'ttcr,  K'-'tlinji^  iKJttcr.  I 
shall  soon  be*  ^  'I  now.  Vou  have  cnri  led  yonr  point.  \()\\ 
have  cnred  vonr  enemy/' 

"Thank  Ciod  for  tlint  ! '*  Hilda  .;«id,  and  glided  away 
silc-nlly. 

vSebastian  ate  his  cnp  of  arrowroot  in  silenee  :  then  he 
lookctl  at  me  with  wislliil,  mnsinj;  eyes.  '*  Cnml»erled>;e," 
he  murmnred  at  la.st  ;  "  after  all,  I  can't  help  admiring  that 
woman.  She  is  th.'  only  person  who  has  ever  checkmated 
me.  She  checkmates  nie  e\  cry  time.  Steadfastness  is  what 
I  love.  Her  steadfastness  ofpurpo.se  and  her  determination 
move  me." 

"  I  wi.sh  they  wonld  moveyoii  to  tell  the  truth,"  I  an- 
swered. 

He  nuised  again.  "To  tell  the  truth  !"  he  muttered, 
moviu).  lis  head  up  and  down.  I  have  lived  for  science. 
Shall  I  wreck  all  now  ?  There  are  truths  which  it  is  better 
to  hide  than  to  i)roclaim.  Uncomfortable  truths — truths 
that  never  should  have  been — truths  which  help  to  make 
greater  truths  incredible.  But,  all  the  same,  I  camiot  help 
admiring  that  woman.  She  has  Vorke-nannerman's  intel- 
lect, with  a  great  deal  more  than  Vorke-liannerman's  force  ot 
will.  vSuch  firniiiess  !  such  energy  !  .such  resolute  p-Uienf"" 
She  is  a  wonderful  creature.     I  can't  help  admiring  hei  .  " 

I  said  no  more  to  him  just  then.  I  thought  it  better  to 
let  nascent  remorse  and  na.scent  admiration  work  out  their 
own  natural  effects  unimpeded.  For  I  could  see  our  enemy 
was  beginning  to  feel  .some  sting  of  remorse.  Some  men  are 
below  it.  Sebastian  thought  himself  above  it.  I  fel't  sure 
he  was  mistaken. 


The  ("^ffkcr  who  rndctstooil  iVrlcctIv  ;>4:i 


Vet  even  in  the  midst  of  tltcne  pcrnotinl  |>reoiTU|)atioiiH,  I 
»aw  that  our  ^rcat  tc.u  licr  was  ?*till,  as  ever,  the  pure  man  af 
Hcicnce.  He  noted  every  syinpton\  and  every  chanj»e  of  tlie 
disease  willi  profes^iiouid  accuracy.  lie  observed  his  own 
case,  whenever  his  nuiid  was  clear  enouj^h.  as  impartially  n?* 
he  woidd  iiave  observed  any  'Uitsidc  paliunt's.  "  Tliis  is 
it  rare  diancc,  Cund)erledKe,"  he  whispered  to  me  oiicc,  in 
an  interval  of  delirium.  "  So  few  luiropeans  have  ever  liad 
the  'N)ntplnint,  and  ]^rohably  noiit.-  wlto  were  cotnpetent  to 
flescrihe  the  specific  subjective  and  psychological  symptoms. 
The  delusions  one  K<^ts  as  one  sinks  iiitf)  the  coma,  for 
example,  are  of  «iuite  a  peculiar  t\pe — delusions  of  wealth 
and  of  absolute  power,  most  exhilarating;  and  ma^Miificent. 
I  think  myself  a  millionaire  or  a  Prime  Minister.  lie  stire 
you  make  a  note  of  that — in  case  I  die.  If  I  recover,  of 
c(mrse  I  can  write  an  exhaustive  nionoj^raph  on  the  whole 
history  of  the  di.sease  in  the  /in'tisli  Medical  J  on  nial.  Ihit  if 
I  die,  tht.'  task  of  chronicling  these  interesting  observations 
will  devolve  upon  you.  A  most  exceptional  chance  !  Vou 
are  much  to  be  congratulated." 

*'  You  n/Ks/ not  die,  Professor,"  I  tried,  thinking  more,  I 
will  confess,  of  Hilda  Wade  than  of  himstdf.  "  Vou  must 
live  .     .     to  report  this  case  for  science."     I  used  what 

I  thought  the  strongest  lever  I  knew  f'""  him. 

He  closed  his  eyes  dreamily.  "  I'or  science  !  Ves,  for 
science  !  There  you  strike  the  right  chord  !  What  have  I 
not  dared  and  done  for  science  ?  Ihit,  in  case  I  die.  Cuni- 
berledge,  be  sure  you  collect  the  notes  I  took  as  I  was  sick- 
ening— they  are  most  important  for  the  history  and  etiology 
of  the  disease.  T  made  them  hourly.  And  don't  forget  the 
main  points  to  be  observed  as  I  am  dying.     You  know  what 


:1 


H4 


Hilda  Wade 


9  \ 


:>■  „ 


M 


I 


tlicy  nre,  This  \h  a  rare,  rnrc  chnncc  !  T  conj^rntntatc  yoti 
oil  l>ciii^  llic  iiiaii  who  lias  the  first  oppKrlmiily  ever  alTonlcd 
us  of  (jMcstioniii)^  an  iiilL'IIij;i'iit  l-jiropfaii  case,  n  cane  wlicrc 
tlif  patient  is  fully  capahle  of  <U'st>ril)iiij(  with  accuracy  hiii 
Hyinptoins  aiul  his  stMisatioiis  nii  iiie«lical  phraseoloKy." 

He  <li«l  not  die,  however.  Ill  ahout  anotliet  week  he  was 
well  eiiou>;h  to  niov^'.  We  carried  hiiu  <lowii  to  Mo/ufTei- 
poor,  the  first  large  town  in  the  plaiiiM  thereabouts,  and 
handed  him  over  for  the  sI.ikc  "f  convalescence  to  tlie  care 
of  tlie  able  and  efficient  station  doctor,  to  whom  my  tlianks 
are  due  fi>r  iiincli  courteous  assistance. 

•'  And  now,  what  do  you  invan  to  do?"  I  asked  Hilda, 
when  our  patient  was  placed  in  other  hands,  and  all  was 
over. 

She  answered  me  without  one  .stcond's  hesitation  :  "  Go 
straight  to  liouibay,  and  wait  there  till  Sebastian  takes 
pa.ssage  for  luiglaud." 

*•  He  will  go  home,  you  think,  as  soon  as  he  is  well 
enough  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly.  He  has  now  nothing  more  to  .stop  in 
India  for." 

"  Why  not  as  much  as  ever  ?  " 

vShe  looked  at  nie  curiously.  *'  It  is  so  hard  to  explain," 
.she  replied,  after  a  numient's  pause,  during  which  she  had 
been  drumming  her  little  forefinger  on  the  table.  "  I  feel 
it  rather  than  reason  it.  Ihit  don't  you  see  that  a  certain 
change  has  lately  come  over  Seba.stian's  attitude  '  He  no 
longer  desires  to  follow  me  ;  he  wants  to  avoid  me.  That  is 
why  I  wish  more  than  ever  to  dog  his  steps.  I  feel  the  be- 
ginning of  the  end  has  come.  I  am  gaining  my  point. 
Sebastian  is  wavering." 


The  OfTirtT  who  Understood  IVrftctlv  345 


"  Then  when  lie  ciigagvH  a  berth,  you  i^ropoHc  to  go  hy 
the  ^.iiiU"  steamer  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  lUiikeH  all  the  <lilTereiuv.  When  he  tries  to 
t'ollou  me,  he  is  daii^'eroiis  ;  when  he  tries  to  avoid  me,  it 
l)ecomcs  my  work  in  life  to  toUow  iiim.  I  murtt  keep  him  in 
sight  every  miiuitu  now.  I  must  c|nicken  his  conscMeme.  I 
must  make  himy<v/  his  own  desperate  wickedness,  lie  is 
afraid  lo  face  me  ;  that  means  remorsj.  The  more  I  comiK-l 
him  to  f.ice  me,  the  more  the  remorse  is  sure  to  dei'pen." 

I  saw  she  was  right.  We  took  the  train  to  n«)ml>iy.  I 
fouMil  i!)omH  at  tile  hos[iital)lc  cln)>,  by  a  member's  invita- 
tion, while  lliMa  went  to  stt)p  with  some  friends  of  I/uly 
Meadowcrofl's  on  the  Malal)ar  Hill.  We  waitnl  for  Seba.s- 
tian  to  come  ilown  from  tlie  interior  ami  t  ike  his  pa.ssage. 
Hilda,  with  her  intuitive  certainty,  felt  sure  he  woidd  come. 

A  steamer,  two  .steamers,  three  .steamers,  sailed,  and  slill 
no  Sebastian.  I  l)egan  to  think  he  must  have  made  up  his 
mind  lo  i;o  back  some  other  way.  Hut  IliMa  was  confident, 
.so  I  waited  palienlly.  At  last  one  morning  I  dropped  in,  as 
I  had  often  done  l)efore,  at  the  office  of  one  of  the  chief 
stcamsliip  companies.  It  was  the  very  morning  when  a 
packet  was  to  sail.  "  Can  I  see  the  list  of  j)a.ssengers  on  the 
//W//I7?.""'  I  asked  of  the  clerk,  a  sandy-haired  Ivnglish- 
man,  tall,  thin,  and  sallow. 

The  clerk  produced  it. 

I  scanned  it  in  haste.  To  my  surprise  and  delight,  a 
pencilled  entr:'  half-way  down  the  list  gave  the  name,  "  Pro- 
fessor Sebastian." 

"  Oh,  Sebastian  is  going  by  this  steamer  ?  "  I  murmured, 
looking  up. 

The  sandy-haired  clerk  hunnned  and  hesitattid.     ' '  Well, 


346 


Hilda  Wade 


It 

5: 


I  believe  he  's  Roiiiff,  sir,"  he  answered  at  last  ;  "  hut  it  's 
a  hit  uncertain.  He  's  a  fidgety  man,  the  Professor.  He 
came  down  here  this  morning  and  asked  to  see  the  list,  the 
same  as  you  have  done.  Then  he  engaged  a  berth  pro- 
vi.sionally  — '  mind,  provisionally,'  he  said — that  *s  why  his 
name  is  only  put  in  on  the  list  in  pencil.  I  take  it  he  's 
waiting  to  know  whether  a  party  of  friends  he  wishes  to 
meet  are  going  also." 

"  Or  wishes  to  avoid,"  I  thought  to  myself,  inwardly  ; 
but  I  did  not  say  so.  I  asked  instead,  "  Is  he  coming 
again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so  ;  at  5.30." 

"  And  she  sails  at  seven  ?  " 

*'  At  .seven,  punctually.  Passengers  must  be  aboard  by 
half-past  six  at  latest." 

"  Very  good,"  I  answered,  making  up  my  mind  promptly. 
'*  I  only  called  to  know  the  Profe.osor's  movements.  Don't 
mention  to  him  that  I  came.  1  may  look  in  again  myself  an 
hour  or  two  later." 

"  You  don't  want  a  passage,  sir  ?  You  may  be  the  friend 
he  's  expecting." 

"  No,  I  don't  want  a  pa.ssage — not  at  present  certainly." 
Then  I  ventured  on  a  bold  stroke.  "  Look  here,"  I  said, 
leaning  across  towards  him,  and  assuming  a  confidential 
tone  :  "  I  am  a  private  detective  " — which  vvas  perfectly  true 
in  essence — "  and  I  'm  dogging  the  Professor,  who,  for  all 
his  eminence,  is  gravely  suspected  of  a  great  crime.  If  you 
will  help  me,  I  will  make  it  worth  your  while.  Let  us 
understand  one  another.  I  offer  you  a  five-pound  note  to 
say  nothing  of  all  this  to  him." 

The  sallow  clerk's  fishy  eye  glistened.     "  You  can  depend 


by 


I'lic  Officer  wIk)  rnclcrstoo'J  Perfect])-  :>47 

upon  me,"  he  answered,  with  ati  arcjuiesceiit  iind.  I  jiitlj^ed 
that  he  did  not  often  get  the  chance  of  earning;  some  eiglity 
rupees  so  easily. 

I    scril)l)led   a   hasty   note  and  sent  it  rounil   to  Hilda  : 


LKT    US    UNDKRSTAN'l)   ONF.  ANOTMRR. 


**  Pack  your  boxes  at  once,  and  hold  yourself  in  readiness  to 
embark  on  the  Mndhya  at  six  o'clock  precisely."  Then  I 
put  my  own  things  straight,  and  waited  at  the  club  till  a 
quarter  to  six.  At  that  time  I  strolled  unconcernedly  into 
the  office.  A  cab  outside  held  Hilda  and  our  luggage.  I 
had  arranged  it  all  meanwhile  by  letter. 


I'ii 


1 

liL 

ill 


348 


Ilild.i  Wade 


f 


n  1' 


» 


*'s 


'r 


**  Professor  Sebastian  been  here  ajj^ain  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  he  's  l)een  here  ;  antl  lie  looked  over  the  list 
again  ;  and  he  's  taken  liis  j)assaj;e.  lUit  he  muttered  some- 
thing about  eavesdroppers,  and  said  that  if  he  wasn't  satisfied 
when  he  got  on  l)oard,  he  would  return  at  once  and  ask  for 
a  cabin  in  exchange  by  the  next  steamer." 

"  That  will  do,"  I  answered,  slipping  the  promised  five- 
pound  note  into  the  clerk's  open  palm,  which  closed  over  it 
convulsively.  "Talked  about  eavesdroppers,  did  he? 
Then  he  knows  he  's  been  shadowed.  It  may  console  you 
to  learn  that  you  are  instrumental  in  furthering  the  aims  of 
justice  and  unmasking  a  cruel  and  wicked  conspiracy. 
Now,  the  next  thing  is  this  :  I  want  two  berths  at  once  by 
this  very  steamer — one  for  myself — name  of  Cumberledge  ; 
one  for  a  lad) — name  of  Wade  ;  and  look  sharp  about  it." 

The  sandy-haired  man  did  look  sharp  ;  and  within  three 
minutes  we  were  driving  off  with  our  tickets  to  Prince's  Dock 
landing-stage. 

We  slipped  on  board  unobtrusively,  and  instantly  took 
refuge  in  our  respective  staterooms  till  the  steamer  was  well 
under  way,  and  fairly  out  of  sight  of  Kolaba  Island.  Oidy 
after  all  chance  of  Sebastian's  avoiding  us  was  gone  for  ever 
did  we  venture  up  on  deck,  on  purpose  to  confront  him. 

It  was  one  of  those  delicious  balmy  evenings  which  one 
gets  only  at  sea  and  in  the  warmer  latitudes.  The  .sky  was 
alive  with  myriads  of  twinkling  and  palpitating  stars,  which 
seemed  to  come  and  go,  like  sparks  on  a  fire-back,  as  one 
gazed  upward  into  the  vast  depths  and  tried  to  place  them. 
They  played  hide-and-seek  with  one  another  and  with  the 
innumerable  meteors  which  shot  recklessly  every  now  and 
again  across  the  field  of  the  firmament,  leaving  momentary 


T' 


The  Officer  who  Understood  IVrfeclly  34') 

furrows  of  light  l)L'liiiul  IIilmii.  Ik-iieatli,  the  sea  sparkled  al- 
most like  the  sky,  for  every  turn  of  the  screw  churned  up  tlie 
scintillating  phosphorescence  in  the  water,  so  that  coutUies.s 
little  jets  of  living  fire  seemed  to  flash  and  die  away  at  the 
sununit  of  every  wavelet.  A  tall,  spare  man  in  a  picturescjue 
cloak,  and  with  long,  lank,  white  hair,  leant  over  the  taflrail, 
gazing  at  the  numberless  flashing  lights  of  the  surface.  As 
he  gazed,  he  talked  on  in  his  clear,  rapt  voice  to  a  stranger 
by  his  side.  The  voice  and  the  ring  of  enthusiasm  were  un- 
mistakable. "  Oh,  no,"  he  was  saying,  as  we  stole  up 
behind  him,  "  that  hypothesis,  I  venture  to  assert,  is  no 
longer  tenai)le  by  the  light  of  recent  researches.  Death  and 
decay  have  nothing  to  do  directly  with  the  phosphorescence 
of  the  sea,  though  they  have  a  little  indirectly.  The  light 
is  due  in  the  main  to  numerou.';  miiuite  living  organisms, 
most  of  them  bacilli,  on  which  I  once  made  several  close 
observations  and  crucial  experiments.  They  possess  organs 
which  may  be  regarded  as  miniature  bull'.s-eye  lanterns. 
And  these  organs " 

"  What  a  lovely  evening,  Hubert  !  "  Hilda  said  to  me,  in 
an  apparently  unconcerned  voice,  as  the  Professor  reached 
this  point  in  his  exposition. 

Sebastian's  voice  quavered  and  stanuuered  for  a  moment. 
He  tried  just  at  first  to  continue  and  complete  his  sentence  : 
"  And  these  organs,"  he  went  on,  aimlessly,  "  these  bull's- 
eyes  that  t  spoke  about,  are  so  arranged — so  arranged — I 
was  speaking  on  the  subject  of  crustaceans,  I  think — crusta- 
ceans so  arranged — "  then  he  broke  down  utterly  and 
turned  sharply  round  to  me.  He  did  not  look  at  Hilda — I 
think  he  did  not  dare  ;  but  he  faced  me  with  his  head  down 
and  his  long,  thin  neck  protruded,  eyeing  me  from  under 


'II 

I!: 


:! 


.VSO 


Ilil.l.i  W.ulc 


il' 


ji 


t. 


...   i' 


those    ovcrhntip^iiip,     penthouse    brows     of    his.       '*  Von 
sneak  !"  he  cried,  passionately.     "  Von  sneak  !     Yon  have 


"'YOU    SNKAK!'       UK   CRIKO,    I'ASSIONA  1  KI.Y." 

dogged  me  by  false  pretences.  Yon  have  lied  to  bring  this 
about  !  \''ou  have  come  aboard  under  a  false  name — you 
and  your  accomplice  !  " 


Thi-  Officer  who  Uiulcrstotul  IViTrctly  351 


oil 
ive 


his 


I  faced  him  in  turn,  erect  and  iitdliiichinj;.  "  Professor 
vSehastiaii,"  I  answered,  in  my  col. lest  and  calmest  tone, 
"  you  say  what  is  not  true.  If  you  consult  the  list  ot  pass- 
enj^ers  by  the  I'iiid/iya,  now  posted  near  the  companion- 
ladder,  you  will  find  the  names  of  Hilda  Wade  and  IInl)ert 
Cumberled^e  duly  entered.  We  took  our  pas.sa^-e  a/lo  you 
inspected  the  list  at  the  ofhce  to  see  whether  our  names  were 
there — in  order  to  avoid  us.  Hut  you  cannot  avoid  us.  We 
do  not  mean  that  you  .shall  avoid  us.  Wo  will  do^  you  now 
through  life  -not  by  lies  or  subterfuLjes,  as  you  say,  but 
openly  ami  honestly.  It  is  von  who  need  to  slink  and 
cower,  not  we.  The  i)ro.seculor  need  not  descend  to  the 
.sordid  .shifts  of  the  criminal." 

The  other  passenger  had  sidled  away  (juielly  the  moment 
he  .saw  our  conver.sation  was  likely  to  be  i)rivate  ;  and  I 
.spoke  in  a  low  voice,  though  clearly  and  impressively,  be- 
cause I  did  not  wi-sli  for  a  scene.  I  was  only  endeavouring 
to  keep  alive  the  .slow,  smouldering  fire  of  remor.se  in  the 
man's  bosom.  And  I  saw  I  had  touched  him  on  a  spot  that 
hurt,  Sebastian  drew  himself  up  and  answered  nothing. 
For  a  minute  or  two  he  .stood  erect,  with  folded  arms,  ga/iiig 
moodily  before  him.  Then  he  .said,  as  if  to  himself  :  "  I  owe 
the  man  my  life.  He  nursed  me  through  the  plague.  If  it 
had  not  l)een  for  that — if  he  had  not  tended  me  .so  carefully 
in  that  valley  in  Nepaul — I  would  throw  him  overboard  now 
— catch  him  in  my  arms  and  throw  him  overboard  !  I  would 
— and  be  hau'-'ed  for  it  !  " 

He  walkec  pa.st  us  as  if  he  .saw  us  not,  silent,  erect, 
moody.  Hilda  .stepped  aside  and  let  him  pa.ss.  He  never 
even  looked  at  her.  I  knew  why  ;  he  dared  not.  livery 
day  now,  remorse  for  the  evil  part  he  had  played  in  her  life, 


) 


'i|t 


352 


Hilda  Wade 


j!i      t 


I? 


|< . 


respect  for  the  woman  wlio  had  umnasked  and  outwitted 
him,  made  it  more  and  more  impossi))le  for  Sebastian  to  face 
her.  During  tlit  whole  <  ^  that  voyage,  though  he  dined  in 
the  same  saloon  and  pacci  Mie  same  deck,  he  never  spoke  to 
her,  he  never  so  much  as  looked  at  her.  Once  or  twice 
their  eyes  met  by  accident,  and  Hilda  stared  him  down  ; 
Sebastian's  eyelids  dropped,  and  he  stole  away  uneasily.  In 
jniblic,  we  gave  no  overt  sign  of  our  ditTerences  ;  but  it  was 
understood  on  board  that  relations  were  strained  :  that  Pro- 
fessor .Sebastian  and  Dr.  Cumi)erledge  had  l)een  working  at 
the  sam^*  hospital  in  London  together  ;  and  that  owing  to 
some  disagreement  between  them  Dr.  Cumberledge  had 
resigned — which  made  it  mo.st  awkward  for  them  to  Ix? 
travelling  together  by  the  same  .steamer. 

We  passed  through  the  .Suez  Canal  and  down  the  Mediter- 
ranean. AV  the  time,  vSel)astian  never  again  spoke  to  us. 
The  passengers,  indeed,  held  aloof  from  the  .solitary,  gloomy 
old  man,  who  .stiode  along  the  quarter-deck  with  his  long, 
.slow  stride,  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts,  and  intent  only 
on  avoiding  Hilda  and  myself.  His  mood  was  unsociable. 
As  for  Hilda,  her  helpful  winning  ways  made  her  a  favourite 
with  all  the  women,  as  her  pretty  face  did  with  all  the  men. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Sebastian  vseemed  to  be  aware 
that  he  was  .shunned.  He  retired  more  and  more  within 
himself  for  company  ;  his  keen  eye  began  to  lose  in  some 
degree  its  extraordinary  fire,  his  expression  to  forget  its 
magnetic  attractiveness.  Indeed,  it  was  only  young  men 
of  scientific  Lastes  that  Sebastian  could  ever  attract.  Among 
them,  his  eager  zeal,  his  single-minded  devotion  to  the  cau.se 
of  science,  awoke  always  a  responsive  chord  which  vibrated 
powerfully. 


The  Ofticcr  who  Understood  Perfectly  353 

Day  after  day  passed,  and  \vc  steamed  through  the  Straits 
and  neared  the  Channel.  Our  tlion^lits  he^an  to  assntne  a 
home  complexion.  Ivverybody  was  full  of  schemes  as  to 
what  he  would  do  when  he  reached  Ivn^hmd.     Old  Hrad- 


"HIS    MOOD    WAS    UNSOCIABLE. 

shaws  were  overhauled  and  trains  looked  out,  on  the  sup 
position  that  we  would  get  in  by  such  an  hour  on  Tuesday. 
We  were  steaming  along  the  French  coast,  off  the  western 
promontory  of  Brittany.    The  evening  was  fine,  and  though, 
of  course,  less  warm  than  we  had  experienced  of  late,  yet 


354 


HiUlaWailc 


pleasant  and  suinuKT-likc.  Wc  watched  the  distant  clifTs 
of  the  iMuist^re  iiia'ml  iiid  and  tlie  numerous  little  islands 
that  lie  ofT  the  shore,  all  haskinj;  in  the  unreal  ^low  of  a 
deep  red  sunset.  The  first  ollicer  was  in  char^je,  a  very 
cock-sure  and  careless  youny;  man,  handsome  and  dark- 
haired  ;  the  sort  of  youn^  man  who  thought  more  of  creating 
an  impression  upon  the  minds  of  the  lady  passenj;ers  than 
of  till*  duties  of  his  position. 

'*  Are  n't  you  K<>i"R  down  to  your  berth?"  I  asked  of 
Hilda,  about  half- past  ten  that  nij;hl  ;  "  the  air  is  so  nuich 
colder  here  than  you  have  been  feeling  it  of  late,  that  I  'm 
afraid  of  your  cdiilliiig  yourself." 

She  looked  up  at  me  with  a  smile,  and  drew  her  little 
fluffy,  white  woolk'ii  wrap  closer  about  her  shoulders. 
'*  Am  I  so  very  valuable  to  you,  then  ?  "  she  asked — for  I 
suppose  my  g;lance  hail  been  a  trifle  loo  tender  for  a  mere 
ac(puiiiitance's.  "  No,  thank  you,  Hubert  ;  I  don't  think 
I  '11  go  down,  and,  if  you  're  wise,  you  won't  go  down 
cither.  I  distrust  this  first  officer.  He  's  a  careless  naviga- 
tor, and  lo-uight  his  head  's  too  full  of  that  pretty  Mrs. 
Ogilvy.  He  has  been  flirting  with  her  desperately  ever 
since  we  left  Honibay,  and  to-morrow  he  knows  he  will  lose 
her  for  ever.  His  mind  is  n't  occupied  with  the  navigation 
at  all  ;  what  he  is  thinking  of  is  how  soeti  his  watch  will  be 
over,  so  that  he  may  come  down  off  the  bridge  on  to  the 
quarter-deck  to  talk  to  her.  Don't  you  see  she  's  lurking 
over  yonder,  looking  up  at  the  stars  and  waiting  for  him  l)y 
the  compass  ?  Poor  child  !  she  has  a  bad  husl)and,  and  now 
she  has  let  herself  get  too  nuicli  entangled  with  this  empty 
young  fellow.  I  .shall  be  glad  for  her  sake  to  see  her  safely 
landed  and  out  of  the  liian's  clutches." 


M 


The  Officer  who  riulcrstootl  Perfectly  355 

As  she  spoke,  tnc  first  ofTiccr  K'in>t'^'<l  tlowii  towards  Mrs. 
O^ilvy,  and  held  out  liis  chronometer  witli  an  cnconraKinj; 
sinilc  whidi  scoiUcil  to  say,  "  Only  an  hour  auU  a  half  more 
now  !     At  tweive,  I  shall  he  with  you  !  " 


Fr.fiiiNf.  wiTir  UKR  dksi'kratki.y. 


"  Perhaps  yon  're  riii^ht,  Hilda,"  I  answered,  takinp^  a 
seat  beside  her  and  throwing  away  my  cij^ar.  "  This  is  one 
of  the  worst  bits  on  the  French  coast  that  we  're  approach- 
ing. We  're  not  far  off  Tshant.  I  wish  the  riptain  were  on 
the  bridge  instead  of  this  helter  skelter,  self-conceited  young 
fellow.  He  's  too  cock-sure.  He  knows  .so  nuicli  about 
seaman.ship  that  he  could  take  a  ship  through  any  rocks  on 


M 


f 


35^' 


Hilda  W.ulc 


y  t 


ti 


his  course,  bliiidtbld-  iit  his  own  opinion.  I  always  don')! 
a  ninn  who  is  so  nuicli  at  home  in  his  subject  that  he  never 
has  to  think  u))out  it.  Most  tilings  in  this  world  are  done 
by  thinking." 

"  We  can't  .see  the  Usliant  liKl»t,"  Hilda  remarked,  look- 
ing aheiid. 

"  No  ;  there  's  a  little  haze  about  on  thr  hori/on,  I  fancy, 
Soe,  the  stars  are  fadinj;  away.  It  be^ius  lo  feel  (lajup.  Sea 
mist  in  the  Channel." 

Hilda  s:il  uneasily  in  her  deck  chair.  "  That  's  bad," 
she  answered  ;  '*  for  the  first  ofhcer  is  taking  no  more  heed 
of  Ushaiit  than  of  his  latter  end.  He  has  forgotten  the 
existence  of  the  Breton  coast.  His  head  is  just  stuffed  with 
Mrs.  Ogilvy's  eyela.shes.  \'ery  pretty,  lon^  eyelashes,  too  ; 
I  don't  deny  it  ;  but  they  won't  lielp  him  to  i^jet  through 
the  narrow  channel.     They  say  it  's  danj;erous." 

"  I)anj;erous  !  "  I  answered.  "Not  a  bit  of  it  —  with 
reasonable  care.  Nothing  at  .sea  is  dangerous  —  except  the 
inexplicable  recklessness  of  navigators.  There  's  always 
plenty  of  sea-room — if  they  care  to  take  it.  Collisions  and 
icebergs,  to  be  sure,  are  dangers  that  can't  be  avoided  at 
times,  especially  if  there  's  fog  about.  Hut  I  've  been 
enough  at  .sea  in  my  time  to  know  this  much  at  least — that 
no  coast  in  the  world  is  dangerous  except  by  dint  of  reckless 
corner-cutting.  Captains  of  great  .ships  behave  exactly  like 
two  hansom-drivers  in  the  streets  of  London  ;  they  think 
they  can  just  shave  past  without  grazing  ;  and  they  do 
.shave  past  nine  times  out  often.  The  tenth  time  they  run 
on  the  rocks  through  sheer  recklessness,  and  lose  their 
vessel  ;  and  then,  the  newspapers  always  ask  the  same 
solemn    question  —  in    childish    good    faith  —  how   did   so 


The  Officer  who  riulcrstood  IVrfictly  35: 


cxpcriciUTd  and  alilca  navi^:at<>rcomc  loniakc  such  a  mistake 
in  his  rc'ckoiiinK  *  lie  mmlc  no  nnstakc  lie  dimply  tritd 
to  cut  it  fine,  antUiU  it  loo  line  for  once,  wilii  the  result  that 
he  usually  loses  his  own  lilc  and  hi^  pussenners'.  That  's 
all.     Wj  who  have  heeii  at  sea  understand  that  perfectly." 

Ju.st  at  that  tnouieiit  another  passenger  ^trolled  up  and 
joined  us -a  Hen^id  Civil  servant.  He  tlrcw  his  cinir  over 
by  llilda'M,  and  he^in  discussing  Mrs.  O^nlvy's  eyes  and 
the  first  ofl'icer's  jlirtalioii-  Hilda  hated  ^;ossip,  aiul  took 
rcfuj;e  in  K^-'t'eralilies.  In  three  niinutcs  the  talk  had  wan- 
tiered  off  to  ll)seii  J*  iiillu'-'uce  on  the  I'ln^lish  diania,  and  we 
had  fory;otten  the  very  existence  of  the  Isle  of  Ushant. 

*'  The  I'jiKdish  puldic  will  never  understand  IhscJi,"  the 
newcomer  .said,  relit  lively,  with  the  omni.scient  air  of  tl:e 
Indian  civilian.  "  He  is  100  purely  Scandinavian.  He 
represents  that  part  of  the  Continental  mind  which  is 
farthest  removed  from  the  lui^iish  temperameni.  To  him, 
respectability — our  ^od — is  not  only  no  fetish,  it  is  the  un- 
speakable thin^,  the  Moabitish  abomination.  He  will  not 
bow  flowi\  to  the  j?oldeu  imaj^e  which  our  Hritish  Nebuchad- 
nezzar, King  Demos,  has  made,  and  which  he  asks  us  to 
worship  And  the  Hriti.sh  Nebuchadnezzar  will  never  j^et 
beyond  the  worship  of  his  Vishnu,  respectability,  the  deity 
of  the  pure  and  blameless  ratepayer.  So  Ibsen  nuist  always 
remain  a  sealed  book  to  the  vast  majority  of  the  English 
people. ' ' 

"  That  is  true,"  Hilda  answered,  "  as  to  his  direct  influ- 
ence ;  but  don't  you  think,  indirectly,  he  is  leavening  ICng- 
land  I*  A  man  .so  wholly  out  of  tune  with  the  prevailing 
note  of  Kiiglish  life  could  oidy  affect  it,  of  course,  by  means 
of  disciples  and  populari.sers    -often  even  popularisers  who 


'    |) 


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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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2.2 


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11.25  mil  1.4 


2.0 


1.8 


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% 


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7 


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Photographic 

Sciences 

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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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35« 


Hilda  Wade 


but  dimly  and  distantly  apprclicnd  liis  niuanin.u^.  He  must 
be  interpreted  to  the  Iviij;lisli  l)y  ICn^lish  intermediaries, 
half  Philistine  themselves,  who  speak  his  lan^ua^e  ill,  and 
who  miss  the  greater  part  of  his  message.  Yet  only  by  such 
half-hints —  Why,  what  was  that  ?  I  think  I  saw  some- 
thing !  ' 

liven  as  she  uttered  the  words,  a  terrible  jar  ran  fiercely 
through  the  ship  from  stem  to  stern— a  jar  that  made  one 
clench  one's  teeth  and  hold  one's  jaws  light — the  jar  of  a 
prow  that  shattered  against  a  rock.  I  took  it  all  in  at  a 
glance.  We  had  forgotten  Ushant,  but  Ushant  had  not  for- 
gotten us.  It  had  revenged  itself  upon  us  by  revealing  its 
existence. 

In  a  moment  all  was  turmoil  and  confusion  on  deck.  I 
cannot  descriiie  the  scene  that  followed.  Sailors  rushed  to 
and  fro,  unfastening  ropes  and  lowering  boats,  with  admir- 
able discipline.  Women  shrieked  and  cried  aloud  in  help- 
less terror.  The  voice  of  the  first  officer  could  be  heard 
above  the  din,  endeavouring  to  atone  by  courage  and  cool- 
ness in  the  actual  disaster  for  his  recklessness  in  causing  it. 
Passengers  rushed  on  deck  half  clad,  and  waited  for  their 
turn  to  take  places  in  the  boats.  It  was  a  time  of  terror, 
turmoil,  and  hubbub.  But,  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  Hilda 
turned  to  me  with  infinite  calm  in  her  voice.  "  Where  is 
Sebastian  ? "  she  asked,  in  a  perfectly  collected  toue. 
"  Whatever  happens,  we  must  not  lose  sight  of  him." 

"  I  am  here,"  another  voice,  equally  calm,  responded  be- 
side her.  "  You  are  a  brave  woman.  Whether  I  sink  or 
swim,  I  admire  your  courage,  your  steadfastness  of  purpose." 
It  was  the  only  time  he  had  addressed  a  word  to  her  during 
the  entire  voyage. 


I  be- 

or 

se." 
ring 


y. 

■ri 


•J. 


y. 


O 


y. 

U 


■r. 


y. 


36o 


Hilda  Wade 


*.ti 


11^ 


I  ■'  <  ■ 
it  : 


it 


They  put  the  women  and  chilrlreii  into  the  first  boats 
lowered.  Mothers  and  little  ones  went  first  ;  single  women 
and  widows  after.  "  Now,  Miss  Wade,"  tlie  first  ofilcer 
said,  taking  her  gently  by  tlie  slionlders  when  her  turn 
arrived.     "  Make  haste  ;  don't  keep  us  waiting  !  " 

But  Hilda  held  back.  "  No,  no."  she  said,  firmly.  "  I 
won't  go  yet.  I  am  waiting  for  the  men's  boat.  I  must  not 
leave  Professor  »Sebnstian." 

The  first  officer  siirugged  his  shoulders.  There  wns  no 
time  for  protest.  "  Next,  then,"  he  said,  quickly.  "  Miss 
Martin— Miss  Weatherly  !  " 

vSebastian  took  her  hand  and  tried  to  force  her  in.     "  You 


w//.?/go,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  persuasive  tone.  "  You  must 
not  wait  for  me  !  " 

He  hated  to  see  her,  I  knew.  But  I  imagined  in  his 
voice — for  I  noted  it  even  then — there  rang  some  undertone 
of  genuine  desire  to  save  her. 

Hilda  loosened  his  grasp  resolutely.  *'  No,  no,"  she 
answered,  '*  I  cannot  fly.     I  shall  nev^er  leave  you." 

"  Not  even  if  I  promise " 

She  shook  her  head  and  closed  her  lips  hard.  "  Certainly 
not,"  she  said  again,  after  a  pause.  "  I  cannot  trust  you. 
Besides,  I  must  stop  by  your  side  and  do  my  best  to  save 
you.     Your  life  is  all  in  all  lo  me.     I  dare  not  risk  it." 

His  gaze  was  now  pure  admiration.  "  As  you  will,"  he 
answered.     "  For  he  that  loseth  his  life  shall  gain  it." 

"  If  ever  we  land  alive,"  Hilda  answered,  glowing  red  in 
spite  of  the  danger,  "  I  shall  remind  you  of  that  word.  I 
shall  call  upon  you  to  fulfil  it." 

The  boat  was  lowered,  and  still  Hilda  stood  by  my  side. 
One  second  later,  another  shock  shook  us.     The  Vindhya 


The  Officer  who  Understood  Perfectly  36' 

parted  amidships,   and  we  found  ourselves  striip^Rlinj?  and 
cliokin^  iti  tlie  cold  sea  water. 

It  was  a  miracle  that  every  soul  of  us  was  not  drowned 
that  moment,  as  many  of  us  were.  The  swirling  eddy  which 
followed  as  the  /  'indhya  sank  swamped  two  of  the  boats,  and 
carried  down  not  a  few  of  tho.se  who  were  standing;;  on  the 


(^ 


"DO   YOU   THINK   HE   IS   ALIVE?' 


deck  with  us.  The  last  I  saw  of  the  first  officer  was  a 
writhing  form  whirled  about  in  the  water  ;  before  he  .sank, 
he  shouted  aloud,  with  a  seaman's  frank  courage,  "  Say  it 
was  all  my  fault ;  I  accept  the  responsibility.  I  ran  her  too 
close.  I  am  the  only  one  to  blame  for  it."  Then  he  disap- 
peared in  the  whirlpool  caused  by  the  sinking  ship,  and  we 
were  left  still  struggling. 


.^62 


Hilda  Wacic 


J' 

m 


One  of  the  life-rafts,  hastily  rigged  by  the  sailors,  floated 
our  way.  Hilda  struck  out  a  stroke  or  two  and  caught  it. 
She  dragged  liLTself  ou  to  it,  aud  beckoued  nie  to  follow. 
I  could  see  she  was  holding  on  to  soniethiiig  tightly.  I 
struck  out  in  turn  and  reached  the  raft,  which  was  coni- 
po.s'.d  of  t>vo  seats,  fastened  together  in  haste  at  the  first 
note  of  danger.  I  hauled  myself  up  by  Hilda's  side. 
"  Help  me  to  pull  him  aboard  !  "  she  cried,  in  an  agoni.sed 
voice.  "  I  am  afraid  he  has  lost  consciousness  !  "  Then  I 
looked  at  the  object  she  was  clutching  in  her  hands.  It  was 
Sebastian's  white  head,  apparently  quite  lifeless. 

I  pulled  him  up  with  her  and  laid  him  out  on  the  r:ift.  A 
very  faint  bieeze  from  the  south-west  had  .sprung  up  ;  that 
and  a  strong  seaward  current  that  sets  round  the  rocks  were 
carrying  us  straight  out  from  the  Breton  coast  and  all  chance 
of  rescue,  towards  the  open  channel. 

But  Hilda  tiiought  nothing  of  such  physical  danger. 
"  We  h;iv'e  saved  him,  Hubert  !  "  she  cried,  clasping  her 
hands.  "  We  have  saved  him  !  But  do  you  think  he  is 
alive  ?  For  unless  he  is,  mj'  chance,  our  chance,  is  gone 
for  ever  !  " 

I  bent  over  and  felt  his  pulse.  As  far  as  I  could  make 
out,  it  still  beat  feebly. 


CHAPTKR  XII 

TIIK   IvPISODK    OF   TIIK    DKAI)   MAN   WHO   SPOKR 

IWIIJv  not  trouble  you  with  details  of  those  three  terrible 
days  and  nights  when  we  drifted  helplessly  about  at  the 
mercy  of  the  currents  on  our  improvised  life-raft  up 
and  down  the  English  Channel.  The  first  night  was  the 
worst.  Slowly  after  that  we  grew  used  to  the  danger,  the 
cold,  the  hunger,  and  the  thirst.  Our  .senses  were  numbed  ; 
we  passed  whole  hours  together  in  a  sort  of  torpor,  just 
vaguely  wotidering  whether  a  ship  would  come  in  sight  to 
.save  us,  obeying  the  merciful  law  that  those  who  are  utterly 
exhausted  are  incapal)le  of  acute  fear,  and  acquiescing  in  the 
probability  of  our  own  extinction.  But  however  slender 
the  chance — and  as  the  hours  stole  on  it  seemed  slender 
enough — Hilda  still  kept  her  hopes  fixed  mainly  on  Sebas- 
tian. No  daughter  could  have  watched  the  father  she  loved 
more  eagerly  a*id  closely  than  Hilda  watched  her  life-long 
enemy — the  man  who  had  wrought  such  evil  upon  her  and 
hers.  To  save  our  own  lives  without  him  would  be  useles.s. 
At  all  hazards,  she  must  keep  him  alive,  on  the  bare  chance 
of  a  rescue.  If  he  died,  there  died  with  him  the  last  hope 
of  justice  and  redress. 

As  for  Sebastian,  after  the  first  half-hour,  during  which 

3^3 


f.n 


u 


l\' 


3^>4 


Hilda  Waclc 


he  lay  white  atul  unconscious,  he  opened  his  cj'cs  faintly,  ns 
we  could  see  by  the  moonlight,  and  ga/ed  around  hinj  with 
a  strange,  pn/./led  state  of  inqr.iry.  Then  his  senses  re- 
turm.'d  to  him  by  degrees.  "  What  !  you,  Cund)erledge  ?  " 
he  nmrnuired,  measuring  me  with  his  eye  ;  "  and  you, 
Nursi;  Wafle  ?     Well,    I  thought   you  would   manage  it  " 


HILDA    WATCHED    HKR   LIFE-LONG    ENEMY. 


There  was  a  tone  almost  of  amusement  in  his  voice,  a  half- 
ironical  tone  which  had  been  familiar  to  us  in  the  old  hospi- 
tal days.  He  raised  himself  on  one  arm  and  gazed  at  the 
water  all  round.  Then  he  was  silent  for  some  minutes. 
At  last  he  spoke  again.  "  Do  you  know  what  I  ought  to  do 
if  I  were  consistent  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  tinge  of  pathos  in 


'I'hc  Diad  Man  who  Spc^ke  3^5 


his  words.  "Jump  off  this  raft,  atid  deprive  you  of  your 
last  chance  of  triumph — the  triumph  which  you  have  worked 
for  so  hard.  Vou  want  to  .save  my  life  for  your  own  ends, 
not  for  niijie.     Why  should  I  help  you  to  my  own  undoinj?  ?  " 

Hilda's  voice  was  tenderer  and  softer  than  usual  as  .she 
answered  :  "  No,  not  for  my  own  ends  alone,  an<l  not  for 
your  undoing?,  but  to  give  you  one  last  chance  of  tuihurden- 
ing  your  con.scieuce.  Some  men  are  too  .small  to  he  capable 
of  remorse  ;  their  little  souls  have  no  room  for  such  a  feeling. 
You  are  great  enough  to  feel  it  and  to  try  to  crush  it  down. 
Hut  you  can  not  cru.sh  it  down  ;  it  crops  up  in  spite  cf 
you.  You  have  tried  to  bury  it  in  your  soul,  and  you  have 
failed.  It  is  your  remor.se  that  has  driven  you  to  make  so 
many  attempts  against  the  only  living  .souls  who  knew  and 
understood.  If  ever  we  get  .safely  to  land  once  more — and 
God  knows  it  is  not  likely — I  give  you  still  the  chance  of 
repairing  the  mischief  you  have  done,  and  of  clearing  my 
father's  memory  from  the  cruel  stain  which  you  and  only 
you  can  wipe  away." 

Sebastian  lay  long,  silent  once  more,  gazing  up  at  her 
fixedly,  with  the  foggy,  white  moonlight  shining  upon  his 
bright,  inscrutable  eyes.  "  You  are  a  brave  woman,  Maisie 
Yorke-Bannerman,"  he  said,  at  last,  slowly  ;  "  a  very  brave 
woman.  I  will  try  to  live — I  too — for  a  purpose  of  my  own. 
I  say  it  again  :  he  that  loseth  his  life  shall  gain  it." 

Incredible  as  it  may  sound,  in  half  an  hour  more  he  was 
lying  fast  asleep  on  that  wave-tossed  raft,  and  Hilda  and  I 
were  watching  him  tenderly.  And  it  seemed  to  us  as  we 
watched  him  that  a  change  had  come  over  those  stern  and 
impassive  features.  They  had  .softened  and  melted  until  his 
face  was  that  of  a  gentler  and  better  type.     It  was  as  if  some 


366 


Hilda  W.ulc 


t- 


m.h 


1 


i 

hi 


inward  chaiijjc  of  soul  was  moulding  lliu  fierce  «)1(1  Professor 
into  a  nobler  and  more  venerable  man. 

Day  after  day  we  drifted  on,  without  food  or  water.  The 
n^ony  was  terrible  ;  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  it,  for  to 
do  .so  is  to  brinj;  it  back  loo  clearly  to  my  memory.  Hilda 
and  I,  beinn  youn^^er  and  stronj;er,  bore  up  against  it  well  ; 
but  vSebaslian,  old  and  worn,  and  .still  weak  from  the 
pl.i^jue,  K''^'W  daily  weaker,  llis  pulse  just  beat,  and  some- 
times I  could  hardly  feel  it  thrill  under  my  linger,  lie 
became  delirious,  and  nuirnuired  nmch  about  Vorke-Hanner- 
man's  daughter.  Son.etimes  he  forj;ot  all,  and  spoke  to  me 
in  the  friendly  terms  of  our  old  ac({uaintance  at  Nathaniel's, 
givinj;  me  directions  and  advice  about  imaginary  operations. 
Hour  after  hour  we  watched  for  a  sail,  and  no  sail  appeared. 
One  could  hardly  believe  we  could  toss  about  .so  lonj?  in  the 
main  highway  of  traffic  without  .seeing  a  ship  or  spying  more 
than  the  .smoke-trail  of  .some  passing  .steamer. 

As  far  as  I  could  judge,  during  those  days  and  nights,  the 
wind  veered  from  .south-west  to  .south-ea.st,  and  carried  us 
steadily  and  surely  towards  the  open  Atlantic.  On  the  third 
evening  out,  about  five  o'clock,  I  .saw  a  dark  object  on  the 
horizon.  Was  it  moving  towards  us  ?  We  strained  our 
eyes  in  breathless  suspen.se.  A  minute  passed,  and  then 
another.  Yes,  there  could  be  no  doubt.  It  grew  larger 
and  larger.  It  was  a  .ship — a  steamer.  We  made  all  the 
signs  of  di.stress  we  could  manage.  I  stood  up  and  waved 
Hilda's  white  shawl  frantically  in  the  air.  There  was  half 
an  hour  of  suspense,  and  our  hearts  sank  as  we  thought  that 
they  were  about  to  pass  us.  Then  the  steamer  hove  to  a 
little  and  seemed  to  notice  us.  Next  instant  we  dropped 
upon  our  knees,    for  we  saw  they  were  lowering  a  boat. 


lie 


fer 


fed 
ilf 
lat 


< 


:3 


o 


ed 


308 


Hilda  W.ulc 


i 


They  were  coming  to  our  nid.     They  wouUl  l)e  in  time  to 

81 VC  UM. 

Hilda  wntchcd  our  rescuers  with  parted  lips  and  ngouiscd 
eyes.  Then  she  Iclt  Scl).istian's  pulse.  "  Thank  Ileaveu," 
nhe  cried,  "  he  still  lives  !  They  will  be  here  before  he  is 
<|uite  past  confession." 

Scba.stiuu  opened  hi.s  eyes  dreunuly.  "A  boat  i*  "  he 
asked. 

'•  Yes,  a  boat  !" 

"  Then  you  have  jj^ained  your  point,  child.  I  atn  able  to 
collect  myself,  (iive  me  a  few  hours'  more  life,  and  what  I 
can  do  to  m;ike  aniL-nds  to  you  .shall  be  done." 

I  don't  know  why,  but  it  seemed  lonj;er  between  the  time 
when  the  boat  was  lowered  and  the  moment  when  it  reached 
us  than  it  had  .seemed  duriu),;  the  three  days  and  uiKlUs  we 
lay  to.ssing  about  helplessly  on  the  open  Atlanlic.  There 
were  times  when  we  could  hardly  believe  it  was  really 
moving.  At  last,  however,  it  reached  us,  and  we  .saw  the 
kindly  faces  and  outstretched  hands  of  our  rescuers.  Hilda 
clung  to  Sebastian  with  a  wild  cla.sp  as  the  men  reached  out 
for  her. 

"  No,  take  ///w  first  !  "  she  cried,  when  the  Siiilors,  after 
the  custom  of  men,  tn'ed  to  help  her  into  the  gig  before  at- 
tempting to  save  us  ;  '*  his  life  is  worth  more  to  me  than  my 
own.  Take  hir.i — and  for  God's  sake  lift  him  gently,  for  he 
is  nearly  gone  !  " 

They  took  him  aboard  and  laid  him  down  in  the  stern. 
Then,  and  then  oidy,  Hilda  .stepped  into  the  boat,  and  I 
staggered  after  her.  The  officer  in  charge,  a  kind  young 
Irishman,  had  had  the  foresight  to  bring  brandy  and  a  little 
beef  essence.     We  ate  and  drank  what  we  dared  as  they 


The  I)c;ul  Man  ulio  Spoke 


369 


rowed  UM  )>ack  to  the  atcuincr.  (nuliaNlian  lay  back,  with  hiH 
wliitc  cyvlaHhcM  cloned  over  the  lidM,  and  the  livid  hue  of 
death  upon  his  emaciated  cheeks  ;  bnt  he  drank  n  teaspoon - 
ful  or  two  of  brandy,  and  swallowed  the  l)eef  essence  with 
whicii  Hilda  (cd  hint. 

"  Your  father  is  the  most  exhausted  of  the  party,"  the 


(•fliier  said,  in  a  low  undertone. 


>ld  f< 


:h  advcnture^ 


II< 


Toor  fellow,  he  is  too 


rk 


seems  tu  have  hardly  a  >, 
of  life  left  in  him." 

Hilda  shuddered  with  evident  horror.  "  He  is  not  my 
father — thank  Heaven  !  "  she  cried,  leaning  over  him  and 
supporting  his  drooping  head,  in  si)ite  of  her  own  fatigue 
and  the  cold  that  chilled  our  very  bones.  "  Hut  I  think  he 
will  live.  I  mean  him  to  live.  He  is  my  best  friend  now — 
and  my  bitterest  enemy  !  " 

The  officer  looked  at  her  in  surprise,  and  then  touched  his 
forehead,  inc|uiringly,  with  a  (piick  glance  at  me.  He  evi- 
dently thought  cold  and  hunger  had  alTecled  her  reason.  I 
.shook  my  head.  ''It  is  a  peculiar  case,"  I  whispered. 
"  What  the  lady  says  is  right.  Kvery thing  depends  for  us 
upon  our  keeping  him  alive  till  we  reach  Ivngland." 

They  rowed  us  to  the  boat,  and  we  were  handed  tenderly 
up  the  side.  There,  the  .ship's  surgeon  and  everybody  else 
on  board  did  their  best  to  restore  us  after  our  terrible  ex- 
perience. The  ship  was  the  Dofi,  of  the  Royal  Mail  Steam- 
ship Company's  West  Indian  line;  and  nothing  could  exceed 
the  kindness  with  which  we  were  treated  by  every  soul  on 
board,  from  the  captain  to  the  stewardess  and  the  junior 
cabin-boy.  Sebastian's  great  name  carried  weight  even 
here.     As  soon  as  it   was  generally   understood  on   l)oard 

that  we  had  brought  with  us  the  famous  physiologist  and 
34 


I 


370 


Hilda  Wade 


1*  .i 


pathologist,  the  man  whose  name  was  famous  throughout 
Jvii-opL',  we  mi};ht  have  asked  for  anything  that  the  ship 
contained  without  fear  of  a  refusal.  Hut,  indeed,  Hilda's 
sweet  face  was  enough  in  itself  to  win  the  interest  and  sym- 
pathy of  all  who  saw  it. 

By  eleven  next  morning  we  were  off  Plymouth  Sound  ; 
and  by  midday  we  had  landed  at  the  Mill  Bay  Docks,  and 
were  on  our  v,'ay  to  a  comfortable  I'.otel  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. 

Hilda  was  too  good  a  nur.se  to  bother  Sei)astian  at  once 
about  his  implied  promise.  She  had  him  put  to  bed,  and 
kept  him  there  carefully. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  his  condition  ?  "  she  asked  me, 
after  the  second  day  wa^i  over.  I  could  see  by  her  own 
grave  face  that  .she  had  already  formed  her  own  conclusions. 

*'  He  cannot  recover,"  I  answered.  "  His  constitution, 
shattered  by  the  plague  and  by  his  incessant  exertions,  has 
received  too  severe  a  shock  in  this  shipwreck.  He  is 
doomed." 

"  So  I  think.  The  change  is  but  temporary.  He  will 
not  last  out  three  days  more,  I  fancy." 

"  He  has  rallied  wonderfully  to-day,"  J  said  ;  "  but  't  is 
a  pasbiiig  rally  ;  a  flicker — no  more.  If  you  wish  to  do 
anything,  now  is  the  moment.  If  you  delay,  you  will  be 
too  late." 

"  I  will  go  in  and  see  him,"  Hilda  answered.  "  I  have 
said  nothing  more  to  him,  l)ut  I  think  he  is  moved.  I  think 
he  means  to  keep  his  promise.  He  has  shown  a  strange  tend- 
erness to  me  these  last  few  days.  I  almost  believe  he  is  at  last 
remorseful,  and  ready  to  undo  the  evil  which  he  has  done." 

She  stole  softly  into  the  sick  room.     I  followed  her  on 


The  Dead  Man  who  Spoke  371 

tip- toe,  and  stood  near  the  door  l)cliind  the  screen  which  shnt 
oflf  the  draught  from  the  patient.  Sebastian  stretched  his 
arms  out  to  her.  "  Ah,  Maisie,  my  child,"  he  cried, 
addressing  her  by  the  name  .she  had  borne  in  her  childhood 
— both  were  her  own — "  don't  leave  me  any  more  !  Stay 
with  me  always,  Mai.sie  !     I  can't  get  on  without  you." 


I    ALMOST   KELIP:VK   HK   is  at   last    REMORSIiFUL. 


"  But  you  hated  once  to  see  me  !  " 

*'  Because  I  have  so  wronged  you." 

"  And  now  ?    Will  you  do  nothing  to  repair  the  wrong  ?  " 

"  My  child,  I  can  never  undo  that  wrong.  It  is  irrepar- 
able, for  the  past  can  nev^er  be  recalled  ;  but  I  will  try  my 
best  to  minimise  it.  Call  Cumberledge  in.  I  am  quite 
sensible  now,  quite  conscious.     You  will  be  my  witness, 


r- 


Hilda  Wade 


Cumberledge,  that  my  pulse  is  normal  and  that  my  brain  is 
cletir.  I  will  confess  it  all.  Maisie,  your  constancy  and 
your  firmness  have  conquered  me.  And  your  devotion  to 
your  father.  If  only  I  had  had  a  daughter  like  you,  my 
girl,  one  whom  I  could  have  loved  and  trusted,  I  might 
have  been  a  better  man.  I  might  even  have  done  better 
work  for  science — though  on  that  side,  at  least,  I  have  little 
with  which  to  reproach  myself." 

Hilda  bent  over  him.  "  Hubert  and  I  are  here,"  .she 
said,  .slowly,  in  a  strangely  calm  voice  ;  "  but  that  is  not 
enough.  I  want  a  public,  an  attested,  confession.  It  must 
be  given  before  witnesses,  and  signed  and  sworn  to.  Some- 
body might  throw  doubt  upon  my  word  and  Hubert's." 

Sebastian  shrank  back.  "  Given  before  witnesses,  and 
signed  and  sworn  to  !  Maisie,  is  this  humiliation  necessary  ; 
do  ycu  exact  it  ?  " 

Hilda  was  inexorable.  "  You  know  yourself  how  you  are 
situated.  You  have  only  a  day  or  two  to  live,"  she  said,  in 
an  impressive  voice.  *  You  must  do  it  at  once,  or  never. 
You  have  postponed  it  all  your  life.  Now,  at  this  last  mo- 
ment, you  must  make  up  for  it.  Will  you  die  with  an  act 
of  injustice  unconfessed  on  your  conscience  ?  " 

He  paused  and  struggled.  "  I  could — if  it  were  not  for 
you,"  he  answered. 

"  Then  do  it  for  me,"  Hilda  cried.  "  Do  it  for  me  !  I 
ask  it  of  you  not  as  a  favour,  but  as  a  right.  I  demand  it  !  " 
She  stood,  white,  stern,  inexorable,  by  his  couch,  and  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

He  paused  once  more.  Then  he  murmured  feebly,  in  a 
querulous  tone,  "  What  witnesses?  Whom  do  you  wish  to 
be  present  ? " 


The  Dead  Man  who  Spoke  2>7Z 


Hilda  spoke  clearly  and  distinctly.  vShe  had  thought  it 
all  out  with  herself  beforehand.  "  vSuch  witnesses  as  will 
carry  al)solute  conviction  to  the  mind  of  all  the  world  ;  irre- 
proachable, disinterested  witnesses  ;  official  witnesses.  In 
the  first  place,  a  commissioner  of  oaths.  Then  a  Plynicnuh 
doctor,  to  show  that  you  are  in  a  fit  state  of  mind  to  make  :i 
coiHcssion.  Next,  Mr.  Horace  Mayfield,  who  defended  my 
father.  Lastly,  Dr.  Blake  Crawford,  who  watched  the  case 
on  your  behalf  at  the  trial." 

"  But,  Hilda,"  I  interposed,  "  we  may  possibly  find  that 
they  cannot  come  away  from  London  just  now.  They  are 
busy  men,  and  likely  to  be  engaged." 

"  They  will  come  if  I  pay  their  fees.  I  do  not  mind  how 
much  this  costs  me.  What  is  money  compared  to  this  one 
great  object  of  my  life  ?  " 

"  And  then — the  delay  !     Suppose  that  we  are  too  late  ?  " 

"  He  will  live  some  days  yet.  I  can  telegraph  up  at  once. 
I  want  no  hole-and-corner  confession,  which  may  afterwards 
be  u.seless,  but  an  open  avowal  before  the  most  approved 
witnesses.  If  he  will  make  it,  well  and  good  ;  if  not,  my 
life-work  will  have  failed.  But  I  had  rather  it  failed  than 
draw  back  one  inch  from  the  course  which  I  have  laid  down 
for  myself." 

I  looked  at  the  worn  face  of  Sebastian.  He  nodded  his 
head  slowly.  "  She  has  conquered,"  he  answered,  turning 
upon  the  pillow.  "  Let  her  have  her  own  way.  I  hid  it 
for  years,  for  science'  sake.  That  was  my  motive,  Cumber- 
ledge,  and  I  am  too  near  death  to  lie.  Science  has  now 
nothing  more  to  gain  or  lose  by  me.  I  have  served  her 
well,  but  I  am  worn  out  in  her  service.  Maisie  may  do  as 
she  will.     I  accept  her  ultimatum." 


374 


Hilda  Wade 


ff 


mi- 


We  telegraplied  up,  at  once.  Fortiir.ately,  both  men  were 
dijXMigagc'd,  aiul  both  keenly  interested  in  the  case,  liy 
that  evening,  Horace  MayfieUl  was  talking  it  all  over  with 
nie  in  the  hotel  at  vSonthanipton.  "  Well,  Hubert,  my  boy," 
he  said,  "  a  woman,  we  know,  can  do  a  great  deal";  he 
smiled  his  familiar  smile,  like  a  genial  fat  toad  ;  "  but  if 
your  Yorke-Bannerman  succeeds  in  getting  a  confession  out 
of  vSebastian,  she  '11  extort  my  admiration."  He  paused  a 
moment,  then  he  added,  in  an  afterthought:  "  I  say  that 
she  '11  extort  my  admiration  ;  but,  mind  you,  I  don't  know 
that  I  shall  feel  inclined  to  believe  it.  The  facts  have  always 
ai)peared  to  me — strictly  between  ourselves,  you  know — to 
admit  of  only  one  explanation." 

"  Wait  and  see,"  I  answered.  "  You  think  it  more  likely 
that  Miss  Wade  will  have  persuaded  Sebastian  to  confess  to 
things  that  never  happened  than  that  he  will  convince  you 
of  Yorke-Bannerman's  innocence  ?  " 

The  great  Q.C.  fingered  his  cigarette-holder  affectionately. 
"  You  hit  it  first  time,"  he  answered.  "  That  is  precisely 
my  attitude.  The  evidence  against  our  poor  friend  was  so 
peculiarly  black.  It  would  take  a  great  deal  to  make  me 
disbelieve  it." 

"  But  surely  a  confession " 

'•  Ah,  well,  let  me  hear  the  confession,  and  then  I  shall  be 
better  able  to  judge." 

Even  as  he  spoke  Hilda  had  entered  the  room. 

"  There  will  be  no  difficulty  about  that,  Mr.  Mayfield. 
You  shall  hear  it,  and  I  trust  that  it  will  make  you  repent 
for  taking  so  black  a  view  of  the  case  of  your  own  client." 

**  Without  prejudice,  Miss  Bannerman,  without  preju- 
dice," said  the  lawyer,  with  some  confusion.     "  Our  conver- 


The  Dead  Man  who  Spoke  375 

sation  is  entirely  between  ourselves,  and  to  tlie  world  I  have 
always  upliekl  that  your  father  was  an  innocent  man." 
But  such  distinctions  are  too  subtle  for  a  loving  woman. 


"'HE   WAS    AN    INNOCENT    MAN,     ^".1»    SHE,    ANC;Rn,Y. 

"  He  7Cfas  an  innocent  man,"  said  she,  angrily.  "  It  was 
your  business  not  only  to  believ^e  it,  but  to  prove  it.  You 
have  neither  believed  it  nor  proved  it  ;  but  if  you  will  come 
upstairs  with  me,  I  will  show  you  that  I  have  done  both." 


?^7^ 


Hilda  Wade 


I; 


May  field  glanced  at  me  and  shrugged  his  fat  shoulders. 
Hilda  had  led  the  way,  and  we  both  followed  her.  In  the 
room  o^  the  sick  man  our  other  witnesses  were  waiting  :  a 
tall,  dark,  austere  man  who  was  introduced  to  me  as  Dr. 
Hlake  Crawft)td,  whose  name  I  had  heard  as  having  watched 
the  case  for  vSebastian  at  the  time  of  the  investigation. 
There  were  present  also  a  commi.ssioner  of  oaths,  and  Dr. 
May  by,  a  .small  local  practitioner,  whose  attitude  towards 
the  great  .scientist  was  almost  absurdly  reverential.  The 
three  men  were  grouped  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  Mayfield 
and  I  joined  them.  Hilda  stood  beside  the  dying  man,  and 
rearranged  the  pillow  again.st  which  he  was  propped.  Then 
she  held  some  brandy  to  his  lip.s.     "  Now  !  "  said  she. 

The  stimulant  brought  a  shade  of  colour  into  his  ghastly 
cheeks,  and  the  old  quick,  intelligent  gleam  came  back  into 
his  deep  .sunk  eyes. 

*'  A  remarkable  woman,  gentlemen,"  sai:l  he,  **  a  very 
noteworthy  woman.  I  had  prided  myself  that  my  will- 
power was  the  most  powerful  in  the  country — I  had  never 
met  any  to  match  it — but  I  do  not  mind  admitting  that,  for 
firmness  and  tena':ity,  this  lady  is  my  equal.  She  was 
anxious  that  I  should  adopt  one  course  of  action.  I  was 
determined  to  adopt  another.  Your  presence  here  is  a  proof 
that  she  has  prevailed." 

He  paused  for  breath,  and  she  gave  him  another  small  sip 
of  the  brandy. 

'*  I  execute  her  will  ungrudgingly  and  with  the  conviction 
that  it  is  the  right  and  proper  course  for  me  to  take,"  he 
continued.  "  You  will  forgive  me  some  of  the  ill  which  I 
have  done  you,  Miiisie,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  really  died 
this  morning — all  unknown  to  Cumberledge  and  you — and 


Is 
le 
Id 
n\ 


m 


ly 

to 


ry 
11- 


er 


or 
as 
as 

3f 


iP 


)n 


le 


id 
id 


37X 


Hilda  \V;ulc 


I 


that  nothing  hut  my  will  force  lias  sufficed  to  keep  spirit 
and  hody  toj^ethcr  until  I  should  carry  out  your  will  in  the 
manner  which  you  su^Kestcd.  I  shall  he  glad  when  I  have 
finished,  for  the  clTort  is  a  painful  one,  and  I  long  for  the 
peace  of  dissolution.  It  is  now  a  ([uarter  to  seven.  I  have 
every  hope  that  I  may  be  able  to  leave  before  eight." 

It  was  strange  to  hear  the  perfect  coolne.ss  with  which  he 
discussed  his  own  approaching  dissolution.  Calm,  pale,  and 
impassive,  his  manner  was  that  of  a  professor  addressing  his 
cla.ss.  I  had  seen  him  si)eak  so  to  a  ring  of  dre.ssers  in  the 
old  days  at  Nathaniel's. 

"  The  circumstances  which  led  up  to  the  death  of  Admiral 
Scott  Prideaux,  and  the  suspicions  which  cau.sed  the  arrest 
of  Doctor  Yorke-Bannerman,  have  never  yet  been  fully  ex- 
plf'.ined,  although  they  were  by  no  means  so  profound  that 
they  might  not  have  been  unravelled  at  the  time  had  a  man 
of  intellect  concentrated  his  attention  upon  them.  The 
police,  however,  were  incompetent  and  the  legal  advisers  of 
Dr.  Bannerman  hardly  less  so,  and  a  woman  only  has  had 
the  wit  to  see  that  a  gross  injustice  has  been  done.  The 
true  facts  I  will  now  lay  before  you." 

Mayfield's  broad  face  had  reddened  with  indignation,  but 
now  his  curiosity  drove  out  every  other  emotion,  and  he 
leaned  forward  with  the  rest  of  us  to  hear  the  old  man's 
story. 

*'  In  the  first  place,  I  must  tell  you  that  both  Dr.  Banner- 
man  and  myself  were  engaged  at  the  time  in  an  investigation 
upon  the  nature  and  properties  of  the  vegetable  alkaloids, 
and  especially  of  aconitine.  We  hoped  for  the  very  greatest 
results  from  this  drug,  and  we  were  both  equally  enthusias- 
tic iu  our  research.     Especially,  we  had  reason  to  believe 


The  I3cad  Man  who  Spoke  379 


that  it  might  liavc  a  most  successful  action  in  the  case  of  a 
certain  rare  but  deadly  disease,  into  the  nature  of  which  I 
need  not  enter.  Reasoning  by  analogy,  we  were  convinced 
that  we  had  a  certain  cure  for  this  particular  ailment. 

*'  Our  investigation,  however,  was  somewhat  hampered 
by  the  fact  that  the  condition  in  question  is  rare  out  of 
tropical  countries,  and  that  in  our  hospital  wards  we  had 
not,  at  that  time,  any  example  of  it.  »So  serious  was  this 
obstacle,  that  it  seemed  that  we  must  leave  other  men  more 
favourably  situated  to  reap  the  benefit  of  our  work  and  enjoy 
the  credit  of  our  discovery,  but  a  cuiious  chance  gave  us 
exactly  what  we  were  in  search  of,  at  the  instant  when  vv" 
were  about  to  despair.  It  was  Yorke-Bannerman  who  came 
to  me  in  my  laboratory  one  day  to  tell  me  that  he  had  in  his 
private  practice  the  very  condition  of  which  we  were  in  search. 

"  '  The  patient,'  vSaid  he,  '  is  my  uncle.  Admiral  Scott 
Prideaux.' 

*' '  Your  uncle  ! '  I  cried,  in  amazement.  '  But  how  came 
he  to  develop  such  a  condition  ? ' 

**  '  His  last  commission  in  the  Navy  was  spent  upon  the 
Malabar  Coast,  where  the  disease  is  endemic.  There  can  be 
do  doubt  that  it  has  been  latent  in  his  system  ever  since, 
and  that  the  irritability  of  temper  and  indecision  of  character, 
of  which  his  family  have  so  often  had  to  complain,  were 
really  among  the  symptoms  of  his  complaint.' 

"  I  examined  the  Admiral  in  consultation  with  my  col- 
league, and  I  confirmed  his  diagnosis.  But,  to  my  surprise, 
Yorke-Bannerman  showed  the  most  invincii)le  and  reprehen- 
sible objection  to  experiment  upon  his  relative.  In  vain  I 
assured  him  that  he  must  place  his  duty  to  science  high 
above  all  other  considerations.     It  was  only  after  great 


ido 


Hilda  Wade 


pressure  that  I  could  persuade  him  to  add  an  itifinitesinial 
portion  of  aconitine  to  his  prescriptions.  The  clru^j  was  a 
deadly  one,  he  said,  and  the  toxic  dose  was  still  to  be  deter- 
mined. He  could  not  push  it  in  the  case  of  a  relative  who 
trusted  himself  to  his  care.  I  tried  to  shake  him  in  what  I 
regarded  as  his  absurd  squeamishness — but  in  vain. 

*'  But  I  had  another  resource.  liannerman's  prescriptions 
were  made  up  by  a  fellow  named  H;irclay,  who  had  been  dis- 
penser at  Nathaniel's  and  afterwards  .set  up  as  a  chemist 
in  Sackville  vStreet.  This  man  was  absolutely  in  my  power. 
I  had  di.scovered  him  at  Nathaniel's  in  dishonest  practices, 
and  I  held  evidence  which  would  have  sent  him  to  ^aol.  I 
held  this  over  him  now,  and  I  made  him,  unknown  to  Han- 
nerman,  increase  the  doses  of  aconitine  in  the  medicine  until 
they  were  sufficient  for  my  experimental  purposes.  I  will 
not  enter  into  figures,  but  suffice  it  that  Bannerman  was 
giving  more  than  ten  times  what  he  imagined. 

"  You  know  the  sequel.  I  was  called  in,  and  suddenly 
found  that  I  had  Bannerman  in  my  power.  There  had  been 
a  very  keen  rivalry  between  us  in  science.  He  was  the  only 
man  in  England  whose  career  mig 'it  impinge  upon  mine.  I 
had  this  supreme  chance  of  putting  him  out  of  my  way.  He 
could  not  deny  that  he  had  been  giving  his  uncle  aconitine. 
I  could  prove  that  his  uncle  had  died  of  aconitine.  He 
could  not  himself  account  for  the  facts — he  was  absolutely  in 
my  power,  I  did  not  wish  him  to  be  condemned,  Maisie.  I 
only  hoped  that  he  would  leave  the  court  discredited  and 
ruined.  I  give  you  my  word  that  my  evidence  would  have 
saved  him  from  the  scaffold." 

Hilda  was  listening,  with  a  set,  white  face. 

*'  Proceed  !  "  said  she,  and  held  out  the  I  randy  once  more. 


The  Dead  Man  who  Spoke  3S1 


*'  I  did  not  i^'w'c  tlic  Admiral  any  more  aconitiiic  after  I 
had  taken  over  the  case.  Hut  what  wan  already  in  hiti 
Hystem  was  enough.  It  was  evident  tluit  we  had  sorjonsly 
uiider-estimatcil  the  lellial  dose.  As  to  your  father,  M.iisie, 
you  have  done  me  an  injustice.  Von  have  always  tliouKht 
that  I  killed  him." 

**  Proceed  !  "  said  she. 

'*  I  speak  now  from  tlie  hrink  of  the  K^^'^ve,  and  I  tell  you 
that  I  did  not.  His  heart  was  always  weak,  and  it  broke 
down  under  tiie  strain.  Indirectly  I  was  the  cause — I  do 
not  seek  to  excuse  anything  ;  hut  it  was  the  sorrow  and  the 
shame  that  killed  him.  As  to  Barclay,  the  chemist,  that  is 
another  matter.  I  will  not  deny  that  I  was  concerned  in 
that  mysterious  disappearance,  which  was  a  seven  days' 
wonder  in  the  Press.  I  could  not  permit  my  scientific  calm 
to  be  interrupted  by  the  blackmailing  visits  of  so  insignifi- 
cant a  person.  And  then  after  many  years  you  came, 
Maisie.  You  also  got  between  me  and  that  work  which 
was  life  to  me.  You  also  showed  that  you  would  rake  up 
this  old  matter  and  bring  dishonour  upon  a  name  which  has 
stood  for  .something  in  science.  You  also — but  you  will 
forgive  me.  I  have  held  on  to  life  for  your  sake  as  an  atone- 
ment  for  my  sins.  Now,  I  go  !  Cumberledge — your  note- 
book. Subjective  sensations,  swimming  in  the  head,  light 
flashes  before  the  eyes,  soothing  torpor,  some  touch  of  cold- 
ness, constriction  of  the  temples,  hunnning  in  the  ears,  a 
sense  of  sinking — sinking — .sinking  !  " 

It  was  an  hour  later,  and  Hilda  and  I  were  alone  in  the 
chamber  of  death.  As  Sebastian  lay  there,  a  marble  figure, 
with  his  keen  eyes  closed  and  his  pinched,  thin  face  whiter 
and  serener  than  ever,  I  could  not  help  gazing  at  him  with 


3«J 


Hilda  W.kK: 


some  patij^s  of  rccollcclion.     I  coiiM  not  avoid  recalling  iIk* 

time  when  his  very  name  was  to  mc  a  word  of  power,  and 

when  the  tli(>tiv;ht  of  him  roused  oit  my  cheek  a  red  fliisl) 

of  eiithu.si.ism,     As   I   |(ioke<l   I   nutrmured  two  liiicH  from 

lirowuinj^'H  (iniinmahan's  I'uncnil : 

'riiJH  is  our  Master,  rmnoiiH,  raliti,  and  dcnd, 
Itottii-  on  our  t>houUlcrs. 

Hihla  Wade,  standing  beside  mc,  with  an  awe.Htriick  air, 
added  a  staii/a  from  the  same  ^reat  |)()em  : 

I.olty  dcsi);nH  nin^t  cIonc  in  hkc  flTn  Ih  ; 

LoJtilv  l>inK, 
Iamvc  him     ^lill  loftier  than  tlic  world  siispcctH, 

L(ivinK  au'l  dyin^'. 


NO    INirKDIMKNI,     SHK    ANSWERED. 


I  gazed  at  her  with  admiration.  "  And  it  \\  you,  Hilda, 
who  pay  him  this  generous  tribute  !  "  I  cried,  *'  You^  of  all 
women  ! ' * 


TJic  Dead  Man  who  Spoke  ^vSj 

"  Yen.  it  IM  r,"  .1,0  niHwcrecl.  -  u,  ^vn,^  n  Rrcnt  inaii. 
nftcr  «!,.  l,ul.n.  Not  kckM.  h„t  Krcat.  An.l  Krcatncsn  l.y 
itKlf  extorts  our  iMuvillinK  hoiiiuKc" 

"  Hilda."  I  cric-,1,  ■■  yo„  arv  a  ktcU  wo„,«„:  an.l  a  k-hhI 

"■"'"•"'•  '«'•     "  ■"^'k^'"  •»«■•  P^ 1  lo  tl,i,.k  voo  will  s,Km  iK.. 

"»•  wife.  |.„r  there  is  „ow  „„  |.,„g,r  .my  ju»t  cat,*:  or 
iinpfdiiiK'Ht.'* 

Heside  the  ,le.,l  ,„a.s.er,  she  lai.l  her  ha.ul  .soleiuolv  an.l 

Ctthiily  „,   ,„i,„,     ..  No   i,„|,„ ,,„;.  ,,,^.  a„s«ere.r     "  I 

liave   v,n.lic-ate.l    a.ul   cleare.l    ,„y   father's  „,e rv.     A,„| 

"ow.  I  ca,,  .ive.     •  Acttial  life  comes  next.'     We  have  ,„.u  I, 
to  do,  lltil)ert." 


•niii  i:nd. 


^ 


II 


IRcw  jFictioth 


Agatha  Webb. 

By  Ann  A  Katharine  Green,  author  of  "The  Leaven- 
worth Case,"  "That  Affair  Next  Door,"  etc.  12°, 
cloth,  $1.25. 

"This  is  n  cleverly  concocted  detective  story,  and  sustains  the  well- 
earned  reputation  of  the  writer.     .     .    .    The  curiosity  of  the  reader  is  excited 


and  sustained  to  the  close," — Brcoklvn  Citizen 

''Acatha  Webb  is  as  intensely    interesting 
"The  Leavenworth  Case,"  "- '     •— •  •'    '  '•-  -■•■ 


and  when  that  is  saTil,  no  higher  compfiment  can 
be  given  'n."—OmaAa  lyorld-lfera/ii. 

Children  of  the  Mist. 

By  Eden  Phillpotts.    nth  impression.     8°,  $1.50 

"A  work  of  amazing  power  which  plainly  indicates  a  master  hand." — Itot- 
toH  Herald. 

"Seldom  docs  a  critio  come  tipon  a  hook  that  he  can  praise  more  heartily 
than  he  can  Kden  Phillpotts's  new  romance,— it  is  so  full  of  life,  so  full  of 
the  subtle  and  strong;  influence  of  cnvininment  upon  character,  that  it  leaves 
upon  the  mind  that  unity  of  impression  which  is  one  of  the  highest  attributes  of 
a  work  of  art." — London  Daily  News. 

Miss  Caylej^'s  Adventures. 

By  Grant  Allen,  author  of  ''Flowers  and  Their  Pedi- 
grees," etc.    With  80  illustrations.    3d  edition.    12°, 

$1.50. 

"One  of  the  most  delightfully  jolly,  entertaining,  and  fascinating 

works  that  has  ever  come  from  Grant  Allen's  pen." — Neio  York  World, 

"A  quaint  and  sparkling  story — bright  and  entertaining  from  beginning  to 
end." — Chicaeo  Tintes-llerald. 

"Perfectly  delightful  from  start  to  finish  .  .  .  hubbies  with  wit  and 
humor.  .  .  .  Miss  Cayley's  adventures  arc  simply  bewitching." — Seattle  //»- 
telligencer. 

Dr.  Berl^eley's  Discovery. 

By  Richard  Slee  and  Cornelia  Atwood  Pratt. 
Hudson  Library^  No.  40.  12°,  paper,  50  cts.  ;  cloth, 
$1.00 

Dr.  Berkeley's  discovery  is  a  liquid  which  ^vill  "  develop"  certain 
memory  cells  of  the  human  brain,  as  a  photographer's  chemicals 
"develop  "  a  sensitized  plate.  Ujion  each  tiny  cell  appears  a  picture, 
visible  by  the  microscope.  By  "  developing"  the  memory  centre  of 
a  brain,  Dr.  Berkeley  can  trace  the  most  secret  history  of  the  being 
that  owned  the  brain  ;  can  see  the  things  the  being  saw,  in  sequence, 
from  infancy  to  death.  With  this  foundation,  the  authors  of  "Dr. 
Berkeley's  Discovery  "  have  told  a  thrilling,  dramatic  story. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  New  York  and  London. 


m 


AH' 

i\  ■■ 

Pi 


I 


mew  jFiction 

SMITH    BRUNT 

United  States  Navy.  By  Waldron  K.  Post,  author 
of  **  Harvard  Stories,"  etc.     12",  459  pages,  $1.50. 

"  A  rattling  good  story  of  the  Old  Navy.  .  .  .  The  book 
recalls  Harry  (iriiigo  by  its  breadth  and  interest  of  plot;  which 
means  it  is  a  tirst-flass  sea  story.  It  is  not  an  imitation,  however. 
.  .  .  The  prevailing  thought  of  the  book  is  the  unity  of  aims, 
ideals  and  race  between  Englishmen  and  Americans,  and  this  idea  is 
brought  out  so  well  that,  even  tliough  the  reader  enjoys  the  story  of 
the  fierce  sea-fights,  he  deplores  the  shedding  of  blood  by  brothers' 
hands. " — BuJ^ab  Courier. 

BEARERS  OF  THE   BURDEN 

Beins:  Stories  of  Land  and  Sea.     By  Major  W.  P. 

Drury,   Royal  Marines.     12°,  286  pages,  $1.00. 

"  Major  Drury's  stories  cond)ine  pathos  and  humor  with  an  under- 
lying earnestness  that  betrays  a  clear  moral  vision.  The  whole 
volume  is  of  a  rare  and  wholesome  quality." — Chiiago  Tribune. 

ROSALBA 

The  Story  of  Her  Development.  By  Oiivr  Pratt 
Rayner  (Grant  Allen),  author  of  *'  Flowers  and 
Their  Pedigrees,"  etc.  Hudson  Library,  No.  39. 
12°,  396  pages,  paper,  50  cts.  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  A  story  which  holds  the  reader  with  profound  interest  to  the 
closing  lines." — Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

ABOARD  ♦♦THE  AMERICAN  DUCHESS" 

By  Headon  Hill.  Hudson  Library,  No.  41.  12'', 
paper,  50  cts.  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

Note. — This  is  a  reprint  of  a  work  previously  published  under  the  title  of 
"  Queen  of  the  Night  " — with  certain  changes  of  names. 

"  He  has  certainly  given  to  the  reading  public  a  capital  story  full 
of  action.  It  is  a  bright  novel  and  contains  many  admirable  chap- 
ters. Life  on  the  ocean  is  well  depicted,  many  exciting  episodes 
are  well  told,  and  it  will  interest  readers  of  all  classes." — Knoxville 
Sentinel, 

THE  PRIEST'S  MARRIAGE 

By  Nora  Vvnne,  author  of  *'  The  Blind  Artist's  Picture," 
etc.  Hudson  Library,  No.  42.  12°,  paper,  50  cts.  ; 
cloth,  $1.00. 

"The  subject  is  worked  out  in  a  most  interesting  manner  with 
admirable  taste  and  more  admirable  art.  The  character  drawing  is 
unusually  good." — Saturday  Evening  Gazette,  Boston. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS.  New  York  and  London 


BY  LOUIS  TRACY. 


THE  FINAL  WAR. 

An  Historical   Romance  of  the  Near  Future.    With  i6  fulUpage 

Illustrations.     Large  12° $1.50 

Paper,  16° 75 

The  clever  historian  of  **  The  Final  War "  has  described  with 
historic  fidelity  and  with  no  little  dramatic  force  certain  very  import- 
ant  international  complications  which  are  to  occur  at  the  close  of 
the  present  century.  Jealousy  of  Great  Britain  has  united  for  the 
moment  certain  of  tiie  other  great  Powers  in  a  scheme  for  the  dis- 
memberment of  the  British  Empire.  Tlie  United  States,  taking  the 
ground  that  this  scheme  constitutes  c  crime  against  civilization,  joins 
hands  with  Great  Britain.  The  result  of  a  war  so  general  as  to  be 
nearly  universal  u  to  lay  an  a^suied  foundation  for  a  linal  peace 
among  the  nations  of  the  world. 

•*  A  capital  story  and  full  of  action.  .  .  .  Such  a  vast  topic  as 
a  great  war  in  Europe  the  author  has  treated  in  the  cleverest  manner." 
—N.   y.  Times. 

"  We  don't  know  when  we  have  been  so  much  diverted  as  by  the 
perusal  of  this  book  of  Mr.  Tracy's.  .  .  .  It  it  a  grand  and 
glorious  military  and  political  jamboree,  with  a  love-story  incidentally 
running  through  it ;  and  we  cordially  recommend  it  to  those  of  our 
readers  who  like  works  of  imagination  not  unmixed  with  considerable 
humor." —  7Vie  Bookman. 

AN  AMERICAN  EMPEROR. 

The  Story  of  the  Fourth  Empire  of  France.     With  17  full-page  illus- 

$1.50 


trations.     12 


'•  *  An  American  Emperor'  is  a  notable  book.  The  plot  is  skill- 
fully  constructeu,  and  the  many  dramatic  incidents  are  well  described.' 
—N.   V.  Herald. 

'*  This  is  a  rattling  good  story  of  intrigue,  plot,  counterplot,  ad 
venture,  fight,  and  phenomenal  undertakings." — Boston  Herald 

THE  LOST  PROVINCES. 

How  Vansittart  Came  Back  to  France.     With  12  full-page  illustra- 
tions.     12° $1.50 

"  The  story  is  all  fresh,  novel,  ingenious,  in  a  certain  sense  far-see- 
ing, like  the  work  of  a  poet — genuinely  creative.  And  with  ^ach  of 
his  books  Mr.  Trccy  has  shown  increasing  confidence  and  command 
of  his  resources." — Chica.^o  Chronicle. 

"'  The  novel  is  bright  and  contains  some  admirable  chapters.  The 
ocean  of  action  is  always  at  flood-tide  and  it  sweeps  on  with  refresh- 
ing vigor.     It  is  an  unique  military  story." — Boston  Gazette. 


G.  P.  PUTN>AM'S  SONS.  New  York  and  London. 


WORKS  BY 

RODRIGUES  OTTOLENGUI 

Cbe  Crime  Ot  tbC  Century,     lliulson  Library,  No.  12.     i6mo, 
$i.cx3;  paper,  50  cts. 

"  It  is  a  tribute  to  the  author's  skill,  that  he  never  loses  a  readi-r. 
For  fertility  in  inrnpinin^j  a  complex  plot,  and  holding;  the  reader 
in  ij^noraiue  of  its  solution  until  the  very  end,  \vc  know  oi  no  one 
who  ean  rival  hin)." — Tohdo  lihuic. 

"  The  book  deals  w  itli  the  subject  involved  in  the  most  powerful 
stylt;  that  the  author  has  shown.  There  is  more  purpose  and  thouj^ht 
in  it  than  in  the  other  books." — lioslon  Cilolh'. 

*'  It  is  one  of  tl.e  best-told  stories  of  its  kind  we  have  read,  and  the 
reader  will  not  be  able  to  ^uess  its  enilinp;  easily.  It  is  ingeniously 
worked  out  without  t^ivinj^  away  the  true  solution,  and  those  who 
enjoy  a  well-writtL-n  vletective  story  should  not  fail  to  read  it." — 
Boston  Times. 

Hi!  Hrtlet  in  Crime.     if)mo.  $i.oo;  paper  50  tts. 

•*  One  may  safely  say  that  it  ranks  with  the  best  detective  novels 
yet  published  in  this  country." — Hoston   'Jinu's, 

'**  An  Artist  in  Crime'  is  the  best  detective  story  which  has  been 
published  in  several  years." — Xc-o  Jlavcii  Palhuiiiini. 

%  Conflict  of  BViOcnCC.     16  mo,  $1.00;  paper  50  cts. 

"This  particular  book  is  the  best  of  its  kind  and  just  what  its  title 
sets  forth  .  .  .  It  is  a  masterpiece  of  consistent  theory,  and  will 
bear  reading  at  any  tin-.e  and  in  any  ])lace." — Onuxha  Exiilsior. 

"  An  inj;enious  novel  of  the  detective  ty|)e.  .  .  .  The  \vh(jle 
book  is  one  of  interest,  both  in  construction  and  in  literary  execution, 
vastly  superior  to  most  of  its  general  class," — Xe~o  York  Advertiser. 

a  /ftODern  'WIli3arC>.     i6  mo,  $i.oo  ;  paper  50  cts. 

"The  plot  is  ingeniously  constructed,  and  the  book  is  intensely 
exciting." — Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"  The  story  is  ingenious,  the  characters  are  dramatic,  and  the 
evolution  of  the  plot  is  natural." — Boston  limes. 

^inftl  PrOOft  or.  The  Value  of  Evidence.     Hudson  Library,  No. 

3 J.     l6mo,  $i.cx)  ;  paper,  50  cts. 

'*  Dr.  Ottolengui  has  given  us  another  of  his  powerfully  imagin- 
ative detective  stories.  The  present  one  is  a  continuation  of  *  An 
Artist  in  Crime'  and  '  The  Crime  of  the  Century.'  The  problem  in 
this  story  is  shrewdly  solved,  and  the  interest  on  the  reader's  part  is 
kept  up  until  the  very  close." — Ne^o  Orleans  Picayune, 

(B.  p.  putnanVe  Sons 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


ffi)2  Hnna  jfiiUer 

A  LITERARY  COURTSHIP 
Under  the  Auspices  of  Pike's  Peak.     Printed  on  deckel 
edged  paper,  with  illustrations.      25th   edition.     ,6"    uJU 

top ;, 

A  VENETIAN  JUNE 

Illustrated  by  George  Sloane.     Printed  on  deckel  edged  paper 
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"CSS  of  n.utive  an.l  s„in,th  I'i^.ud./^:^;;;!'.;'';^^^^'  ^'"'^^'"^  ^-•-'- 

T/w  a/mv  two  I'ols  together  in  box  ^ 

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From  a  Colorado  Sketch-Book.     With  16  full-page  illustra- 
tions.     16°,  gilt  top ^,^^ 

xZZl  l^^V^'^^'x ''"  ^'"'^^  '?''"'■  f-'^S^"^^  ''''^'  t^'«  strenuous  art  of  the 
assing  hour    who  chances  to  select  this  volume  to  cheer  the  hours    will 

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